The Fourth Realm
by Kris Kramer
Summary: A former soldier, branded as a coward, and banished from service in the Army, has a chance encounter with an enemy that leads him on a journey with some unlikely allies as they seek to uncover a mystery deep in the war-ravaged frontiers of their land. See the updated story at /portfolio/the-rise-of-cithria-the-chosen/
1. The Albion Storyline

**Prologue**

In a time long since past, the three great realms of Albion, Hibernia and Midgard lived in an uneasy peace, brokered by the sheer strength of will of Albion's King Arthur. From his home in Camelot, the capital city of Albion, Arthur presided over an era of prosperity that was unprecedent in the history of the three realms. But it was also a time for resentments and rivalries to simmer below the surface. Arthur's era of peace was about to end...

Albion was the fertile land of the Britons and Highlanders, led by the great King Arthur himself. Along with their mystical Avalonian allies, as well as the Saracens, dark-skinned warriors from the south whom Arthur himself had recruited to the cause, the people of Albion sought to become a mighty kingdom that would bring order to their corner of the world. Unfortunately, not everyone agreed with Arthur's vision.

Midgard was the frozen land of the north, home of the Norsemen, Trolls, Dwarves and Kobolds. The Norsemen were viking raiders, led by King Eiric, who sought to find new lands where they could stake their claim. The hardy Dwarves were their allies, as were the giant, stone-skinned Trolls from the mountains and the small, blue-skinned Kobolds from the Undercity.

These races of Midgard, unable to live off the land of their birth, needed to expand their reach, but Albion, and Arthur, blocked their way.

Hibernia was the magical land of the Celts, fierce warriors who had long been subjugated by their more powerful neighbor, Albion. The Celts, led by Lug Lamfhota allied themselves with the 'old races' of Hibernia, the mighty Firbolgs, the diminutive Lurikeen and the haughty Elves, to free themselves of Albion's long-standing dominion over them. All they needed was an opportunity to show their strength.

On Arthur's death, the realms mourned, for they knew times were about to change for the worse. War came shortly after as Midgard invaded, looking for new lands, Hibernia threw off the yoke of their Albion masters, and Albion sought to defend their homeland against two great aggressors. At stake was not only the future of the realms, but of the frontier lands between them, where powerful magical artifacts known as Relics were housed. Whoever controlled these Relics, controlled the strength and power that their magic provided to an entire realm.

For thirty years now these realms have fought, trading lands, Relics, and lives. The balance of power has shifted back and forth among them, but none of the three realms has ever been able to strike a blow decisive enough to claim a final victory. But times are changing. Midgard's ageing armies have been slowly dwindling in numbers, and Hibernia's forces have suffered several notable defeats. Albion, long under siege, is slowly but surely reaching the brink of victory.

But old enemies lurk beneath the surface, waiting for the right time to strike. And the three realms, weakened by decades of war, are at their most vulnerable. The fate of the realms, and their people, is at stake.

**Book 1 – The Gathering**

**by Kris Kramer**

**Chapter 1**

"Coward, coward..."

The pack of children stood at the edge of town and chanted that word over and over as Aiden walked away from Humberton with his pack slung over his shoulder and his hood pulled low over his face. He hated coming to the market here for this very reason. He would have sent someone else to pick up his food if he could afford it, but he barely had enough money to feed himself, so he had to suffer through this lonely, humiliating ordeal every time his pantry emptied out. The kids would taunt him loudly, the adults would scorn him silently, and he'd just try to get through it all fast enough that none of the local toughs would think to provoke a fight.

He tried to keep his face covered when he came here, but his large Briton build and the fact that he owned only one red cloak always gave him away to the locals. The adults always knew him on sight, but he thought that this time he'd managed to do his business and get away without being discovered by the more obnoxious children. As usual, though, it was not to be, even though he took great pains to come here only when the crowds were heavy and he could blend in. The young, freckle-faced son of a woman hawking bread had recognized him, and it took only seconds before he had scampered off to tell the other village children that The Coward was back. He'd only had time to buy bread, a small wheel of cheese and a cheap flagon of wine before they started gathering, and as soon as he left the market and moved onto the east road, they gathered at the edge of the town centre, near the mile marker, and started taunting him.

"Coward, coward..."

No matter how many times he heard that word, the sting of it never lessened, and he wondered once again if this truly was to be his fate for eternity... to be mocked by children until he died of old age, worthless to his people and to his realm. He spent his days and nights alone in a rickety hut in the hills, venturing out only for food or other necessities that he couldn't procure himself, with only an old, nearly deaf hunting dog to keep him company. He had no family any more, and no money besides what he made doing odd jobs for Black Mountain homesteaders in the area. And he stupidly wasted his remaining free time hoping that one day he'd be called back to service in the Albion army, where he could once again prove himself as a respected soldier.

He'd been an Armsman once, fighting in the bloody wars against Hibernia and Midgard, Albion's long-time and bitter enemies. He'd been a good soldier. He was loyal, he was determined, and he was a survivor, having lived through many of Albion's great victories and bitter defeats. He'd killed more of his enemy than he even cared to count, though no one cared about that anymore. His accomplishments had all been lost due to an unfortunate accident and unfortunate timing. He was a little out of shape and a little out of practice, but still fit and well-built, strong, and young compared to some of the veterans out there now. But no army would have him. Not with his sullied reputation, and not with the mark of the coward forcibly branded on his cheek for the all the world to see.

It wasn't deserved, not to Aiden, but what ill-begotten fate in this world ever is? Whether he deserved it or not didn't matter now, though. It was there, and he had to live with it as best he could. So he ignored the sounds of thrown rocks landing harmlessly on the ground behind him, and trudged along the path, hoping only to get home without incident. It was late afternoon, and the sun would be up for another two or three hours, which is how long it would take to reach his small home in the hills. Once there he could throw off his cloak, eat a meager dinner, drink some wine, and maybe try to forget about his fate. Unfortunately, an incident seemed to be coming his way, because at that moment he noticed the Scout that was shadowing him in the woods that surrounded the trail.

Whoever this Scout was, he was arrogant, or cocky, because he was following far too close for someone who should value subtlety and stealth. Aiden kept his hood low and his gait steady, trying not to tip off his pursuer that he could see him darting from shadow to shadow in the thick woods that surrounded the path. He was skilled enough not to make any noise, but he apparently thought that Aiden's hood was blocking his vision because he was far too cavalier about keeping his profile low. Aiden knew it was only a matter of time before he attacked, looking for an easy target, and he desperately wished he'd brought his sword with him. He was sure he could teach this Scout a painful lesson about stalking an Armsman – a former Armsman – but with no weapon on him he would be at the Scout's mercy if he didn't have a good plan.

Hoof beats from behind caught his attention, and Aiden glanced back to see that two horse-drawn carts had left Humberton on the same road and were quickly catching up to him. Aiden moved to the side of the road to let them pass, and as they did he could see that they were merchant carts leaving the market for the day. The first one had an older man and woman up front – Highlanders he thought, native to the nearby Black Mountains. The man was holding the reigns of the horse loosely, and there were only a few empty sacks in the back. The second cart had a younger man driving, a Briton, with a woman and two small children in the back – too young to have been part of the taunting crowd - as well as a few sacks of food that they either hadn't managed to sell or had traded for with something else. Either way, Aiden just kept his head down and let them go their way, hoping none of them recognized him or cared to see his face.

The Scout was hidden now, the sight of the carts probably forcing him to be more cautious, but Aiden knew he was still out there somewhere, no doubt waiting until he was alone on the path and away from the outskirts of Humberton before making his move. Aiden figured that his best bet to fend off the Scout was to just stay with the carts as long as he could. He could hail them down and ask for a ride, and in most cases they'd probably let him. But if he tried to hide his face from them they'd get suspicious, and if he didn't... well, he couldn't take any more disapproving looks today. He decided that he'd just walk faster, instead. The carts were already a little ways ahead of him, and he couldn't hope to keep pace but he could keep them in sight for a little while, and maybe that would be enough to dissuade the Scout and send him back towards Humberton to find easier prey.

Aiden groaned as he watched the carts pull away a bit faster than he expected, and he started praying silently that they would slow down just a bit so he didn't have to walk so fast. His prayers were unexpectedly answered when a man suddenly appeared from the edge of the woods ahead of the carts, wearing a black, hooded robe that covered his face, just like Aiden. He walked to the middle of the path and stood there, waiting for the carts, and for a moment Aiden thought this was the Scout that had been tailing him, but he seemed taller, and bigger, and bandits rarely ventured out in the open like that unless they had a small army to back them up. No matter who it was, though, the carts slowed down as they approached the man and Aiden was glad to make up some ground on them.

"You there. Step aside." The older man in the lead cart called out, annoyed that his trip home was being interrupted so blatantly. The hooded man casually pulled back his hood, and Aiden saw something he hadn't expected to see this day. The man was close to his own age, rugged looking, with tanned skin and long blond hair, and a short beard with braids in it. He wore drab gray clothing covered by well-worn chain mail, and he had a long handled hammer in his right hand. This man was no Briton. In fact, he was no resident of Albion at all. He was a Norseman, from Midgard. A mortal enemy of their realm had somehow breached the impenetrable walls of Sauvage or Snowdonia and was standing before them in full battle garb. The Norseman wasted no time in raising his hammer before him and chanting a spell, and that's when Aiden realized that this wasn't just a Norseman. This was a Thane, one of the feared warriors of Thor who were able to summon their ancient god's power down from the sky with destructive, and deadly, fury.

The woman in the front cart screeched in surprise, and the man tried to in vain to get his horses to turn around, all while the Norseman raised his hammer high and shouted the last words of his chant. Without warning, a bolt of lightning crashed down into the front cart with a deafening crack, splintering it into two pieces and sending fragments of charred wood flying about the path. The Highlanders were thrown clear in opposite directions and landed roughly on the ground nearby while the horses whinnied in panic and confusion. The mother in the second cart was screaming now, and her husband was trying just as vainly to get his horses to turn around as well.

The Thane turned toward the older man, holding his hammer out in front of him with both hands wrapped around the handle. Aiden could see the tiny bolts of blue lightning crackle all around it and he was suddenly reminded of his own difficulties with Thanes in the wars. The Highlander was slowly trying to lift his head off the ground – he must have hit it hard when landing – but he was conscious enough to realize the Thane was approaching him. He held his left hand up to the Thane, begging him to stay back and leave him be, but the Thane just ignored him as he stepped up next to the old man and lifted his hammer. The man's wife had recovered quickly, and when she saw the Thane stand over her husband, his hammer held high, she screamed out for him to stop. But it was too late. The hammer came down, crashing into his shoulder and crushing his chest. The second blow followed immediately, caving into his head. The Thane had claimed his first victim. The old woman cried out again, screaming in agony at the sight of her dead husband, and the Thane turned to her and raised up his hand. A smaller, thinner bolt of lighting rained down from the sky, striking her, and knocking her flat to the ground where she writhed in pain.

"Alfrith! Here!" Aiden saw the mother in the second cart hold a sword up to her husband, shouting at him to take it, while trying to scoop up her two children with her other hand. The Briton, Alfrith, continued to struggle with the horses before reluctantly taking the sword just as the Thane turned his attention to them.

"Get out of here!" Alfrith yelled back to his family. He gave up on the horses, who were all out of control now, and stepped down from the cart to face the approaching Thane. He held his sword out weakly, unsure of himself, and he kept shuffling his feet, trying to back up so he could keep his distance from the Thane while staying between him and his family. His wife jumped off the back of the cart, which was being knocked back and forth by the horses trying to get free, and started pulling the two children out. The Thane, showing remarkable quickness, darted forward and swung his hammer at Alfrith. One swing was all it took, as the hammer collided with the sword, knocking it out of Alfrith's hands and sending it skidding onto the ground nearby, just out of reach. The Thane followed that with a roaring bellow that sent a shockwave out around him, kicking up dust and dirt in all directions and knocking Alfrith off his feet.

Aiden watched the whole scene play out in front of him and realized that he was just standing there, useless. He'd been so surprised to see a Norseman here, and so out of practice since his days in the army that he didn't know what to do. This was battle, this was what he wanted, but he wasn't reacting like he normally would. He knew he should help, but he didn't even know what he could do. He had no weapons, and no armor. He stood little chance against a fully armed and armored enemy. But he also knew that if he just let this man slaughter everyone here today, then he deserved the coward's brand on his cheek. He deserved to be mocked and scorned. Coward... coward... The sound of the kids taunting him rattled around in his head, and he decided that he'd had enough. He would prove to himself that he'd never lost his courage. He knew this wouldn't be the smartest decision he'd ever made, but he wasn't looking for smart. He was looking for brave. So he dropped his pack and charged.

The Thane stood over the Briton and held his hammer up high. He didn't seem content to just smash into the man's skull, however, because he started chanting his spell again, the one that destroyed the first cart, and would no doubt destroy this poor man. Aiden ran at a full sprint toward the discarded sword lying on the ground, hoping that he could distract the Thane just long enough to save Alfrith. Just as he was about to finish the chant, the Thane's eyes darted up, and he saw Aiden. He seemed to realize that the Briton lying prone on the ground wasn't his immediate priority anymore, and he instead turned toward Aiden, which was just what Aiden had hoped for. As the Thane shouted the last words of his chant, Aiden changed direction in mid stride and threw his large body at the Thane instead of the sword, hitting him in the stomach with his shoulder as lightning cracked loudly into the empty ground next to the sword.

The two of them tumbled into the dirt, rolling over each other until the Thane kicked up his knees, flinging Aiden away to his left. He followed that up by swinging his hammer in a sideways stroke, but Aiden grabbed the handle, preventing the blow from having any real force, then pushed it away. Aiden rolled sideways, just out of weapon range of the Thane, then quickly pulled himself up and leaped toward the discarded sword, grabbing it with his right hand. He was back on his feet in a second, facing off against the Thane, who was now also on his feet and ready for a fight. Aiden swung the sword about, testing its weight and balance, and he quickly realized that the sword was junk. The Briton probably only kept it to scare people off, because the edges were blunt, the blade was slightly crooked, and it was so poorly made that it might break if hit in the wrong spot.

_Great_, Aiden thought. He might as well have been holding a sharp stick. Fortunately for him, the Thane didn't know that, and Aiden's years of combat and training were coming back to him quickly now. If the sword couldn't handle parrying blows from a giant hammer, then the answer was simple – don't parry. That meant he needed to be aggressive, so Aiden gathered his wits, steadied his breathing, and took the fight to the Thane. He swung carefully and deliberately at first, just trying to keep his enemy at a distance while he thought of his next tactic, because now he was worried the sword wouldn't even pierce the chain mail armor the Norseman was wearing. That never became an issue, though, because the Thane quickly tired of the duel, raised his hand to the heavens and called down another lighting bolt. It was a smaller bolt, like the one he'd used on the old woman, but it still hurt – a lot. Aiden felt the lightning course through his body, and his muscles all seemed to twitch violently at the same time and then tense up, freezing him where he was. The Thane smiled at him, then heaved his hammer back and then up over his head. The feeling was quickly coming back to Aiden's muscles, but he wouldn't be able to avoid the crushing blow to his skull in time.

He was going to die painfully – that is, until an arrow clipped the Thane's ear.

The Thane lowered his hammer and held a hand up to his now bleeding ear and Aiden used the split second that afforded him to jump out of the way. The Thane turned toward the path behind them with more than a look of surprise on his face. He seemed genuinely angry now. Aiden kept his distance and held his sword up, ready to defend himself, but he followed the Thane's gaze until he saw a young man in a black cloak standing in the middle of the path holding a knocked bow. It was the Scout that had been following him, he was sure of it. The Scout raised his bow and fired another arrow that struck the Thane in his chain mail high on his chest. It didn't actually penetrate the armor, only wedging itself into the mail, but the Thane seemed to understand, just as Aiden did, that a few inches higher and that second arrow would be in his neck. The Thane, realizing that the odds might be changing, turned towards Aiden and snarled, then ran towards the woods along the side of the path. Aiden thought about chasing after him, but what he saw next shocked him even more anything else he'd just experienced.

The Thane stealthed.

Once he reached the shadows of the trees, he just disappeared into the darkness, using an ability that only experienced Scouts or Infiltrators knew. Stealthing was not something Thanes had ever been able to do before, and Aiden took an involuntary step back, suddenly worried that this Thane could now be sneaking up on him and he'd never even know until it was too late. He turned back toward the Scout, who was picking something up off the ground. Aiden was about to call out to him, to warn him, when he realized what the Scout was picking up. It was Aiden's pack. With his food, and his money, and his wine. The Scout lifted it up and threw it over his shoulder. He saw Aiden looking at him so he smiled back and gave a quick wave, then ran off into the woods where he'd come from.

Aiden stood there in disbelief. He'd just fought and nearly died to a Thane with mysterious abilities, who shouldn't even be on this side of the fortress walls, and who could be stalking him right now, just to see all of his food and money taken from him by a Scout who was barely out of his teens. He looked around and saw that the Briton, Alfrith, and his family were all far down the path toward Humberton, running as fast as they could to safety. The old Highlander was dead, and his wife wasn't moving. Aiden was alone out here now, and he couldn't take that Thane if he came back. But he had a sword, which meant he could probably handle an arrogant little Scout who thought to steal from an Armsman.

Aiden suddenly realized that he felt more than just confused and scared. He felt angry at the Scout, he felt proud for managing to save Alfrith and his family, and he felt exhilarated by the prospect of battle. In other words, he felt alive, for the first time in years. He felt a purpose beyond just mere survival, and he wasn't going to waste what tonight had brought him. He couldn't take the Thane, not yet, but he could handle that Scout, and that's exactly what he was going to do next. So he hefted the crooked blade in his hand and ran into the woods to retrieve his pack. And if he was lucky, maybe a little bit of his pride as well.

**Chapter 2**

Aiden panted loudly as he crashed through the woods like a lumbering bear chasing after a meal. He hadn't run like this in maybe a year, and his body was doing its best to remind him of that fact. His legs were burning, his chest hurt, and his breathing was fast and shallow, but all things considered it wasn't as bad as he would have thought. He was somewhere around thirty years old, which wasn't young anymore, especially compared to all the fresh-faced teenage recruits that showed up every year during his time, but he wasn't an old man either. And his training and conditioning seemed to be coming back to him quickly, which was a good sign, because he'd need it shortly.

He was chasing down the Scout that had just stolen his pack, and he was making enough noise to wake the entire realm, but that was all part of the plan. Aiden was trained as an Armsman, not a Scout, which meant his skills were best utilized in an open, face-to-face fight, not at tracking someone who could disappear into thin air. He needed to see his opponent to combat him, so Aiden was gambling that by making as big a ruckus as he possibly could, the Scout would hear the commotion and come to him instead. He'd already shown that he was a bit cocky and overconfident while trailing Aiden earlier, and Aiden was hoping he could use that to his advantage now.

It was a calculated risk, though, because his current direction was taking him toward the river. Any minute now he would be within shouting distance of the goblin settlements nestled along the riverbank, and he didn't want to attract any curious goblin hunting parties if he could help it. And there were more than just goblins in these woods if you listened to the stories. With night approaching, the dangers became even worse, so he needed to finish this soon and get back to safety. He'd already had enough adventure tonight. The mysterious Thane that had just attacked him and the merchant families on the road from Humberton had made sure of that.

Of course, that Thane was the reason why he was out here. Fighting him had reawakened something inside Aiden that had been slumbering ever since he'd been forcibly branded on his cheek by his own realm mates. That brand marked him as a coward to everyone who saw him, and kept him from serving his realm as an honored Armsman should be able to do. But tonight, for the first time in two years, Aiden felt like a warrior again, and he wasn't going to waste that feeling by accepting his fate and trudging back home to his hut in the Black Mountains. No, tonight he would show his fellow citizens of Albion that he was no coward.

The sound of a cracking branch nearby made him stop, and he looked around carefully to see if his ruse had worked. It took him a moment to get his labored breathing under control so he could hear over his own gasps, but once he did he stood completely still and waited to see if the Scout had taken the bait. The sun was going down, and the shadows in the forest were getting longer and darker, which would give a Scout plenty of room to hide in, and hopefully make him feel safe enough to stalk a clumsy, lumbering Armsmen – former Armsmen, he reminded himself – and maybe even show himself before launching a few arrows from the dark.

"You really should learn to be quieter, old man."

Aiden smiled. It had worked. The voice came from behind him, maybe a dozen yards back. Aiden debated turning to face him, but instead he decided to stay where he was and let the Scout feel in charge, like he'd scared him into not moving. So instead, he only turned his head enough to glance back. "And you, boy, shouldn't take what isn't yours."

"That's pretty big talk for a man with an arrow pointed at his head." The Scout replied. "Drop your sword."

Aiden wanted the Scout to feel safe enough physically that he wouldn't do anything rash – like shooting him in the back - and make him feel comfortable enough to get a little bit closer. At this distance, he was a sitting duck. A skilled Scout could get two or three shots off before he reached him, and that's only if the first shot didn't kill him. He needed close the gap to around three or four yards before he could make his move. But he could be nonthreatening and still have a little bit of fun with this thief.

"I don't think I want to do that."

Aiden heard the Scout chuckle under his breath. Then he heard a couple of soft, barely audible footsteps. The Scout was getting closer, trying to get a better shot.

"You do what I say and you don't have to die today."

"I will do nothing you tell me to do unless it includes returning my things to me."

This time the laugh was a bit longer, and louder. He was probably shaking his head, too. Whether it was in pity or disbelief, Aiden couldn't tell yet.

"Well, aren't you a brazen old man." The Scout said. "A little thick in the head, too, because I don't think you understand just how precarious your position is right now."

"Explain it to me, then. Use small words."

Aiden heard another footstep and he grinned. The Scout was somewhere around seven or eight yards away now.

"I have an arrow pointed at the back of your neck." He proclaimed, a little too grandly, Aiden thought. He was beginning to suspect that this Scout was more concerned about putting on a show than actually killing people. "All I have to do is let it fly and you'll probably die before you even have time to feel it pierce your skin. It won't be as painful a death as I normally like to hand out, but it will be fast, which will save me from having to hear you moan in agony. Now drop your sword."

Aiden heard another small footstep, and he decided this was probably his best shot. The sword he was carrying wasn't his sword. It had belonged to one of the merchants attacked by the Thane, and it was obviously only meant to scare trouble off, because it was useless in an actual fight. It was one of the most poorly forged swords he'd ever seen in his life, and it would probably snap in two if put under any duress. If his life ever depended on this particular sword... well, Aiden just hoped it never came to that. So he held it out to his right, holding the hilt between his finger and his thumb, letting the blade dangle over the ground next to him. He let it hang like that for a moment, purely for show since the Scout seemed to enjoy that, then dropped it. The blade hit the ground, digging into the dirt about an inch, before just tipping over and laying there.

"There's a good man." The Scout said.

Aiden heard a couple more footsteps and then he glanced back again. He could see the Scout at the edge of his vision, shrouded in shadow, standing about four yards behind him, and he'd lowered his bow a bit, thinking that his prey had been disarmed. In reality, Aiden was secretly slipping the palm-sized rock he'd been holding in his left hand this entire time into his right.

"Now, why don't you kick that sword away?" The Scout asked. "Just a bit."

Aiden moved his leg back, as if he was going to kick the sword off to the side. Instead of kicking, though, he planted the leg a half step behind him, then spun around to his left, launching the rock at the Scout. The Scout didn't realize what was happening until it was too late, and as he twisted his body to avoid the rock, he ended up moving his right arm into it's path, where it struck him just below the shoulder with a thud.

The Scout cried out in pain and pulled his arm in, letting go of his bowstring and dropping the arrow he had knocked. Aiden used the opportunity to charge at him, covering the four yards in three quick bounds, then leaping at the cowering Scout, who tried to use his longbow to defend himself. Aiden grabbed the bow and twisted his body between it and the Scout, prying it free from his hand. The Scout, however, must have been ready to surrender that weapon, because he immediately slipped away and pulled a long sword out with his left hand. Aiden, still clutching the bow, hurried back to pick up his own sword, and the two stood a few yards apart, their weapons ready, sizing each other up.

This was the first time Aiden had been able to get a good look at the Scout, and his early impressions about him seemed to be right. He looked young, maybe in his late teens, with a mop of wavy, tangled black hair on his head, the hint of a beard on his face, and deep set black eyes. His skin was naturally dark, not tanned like Aiden's, and he suspected that at least one of the boy's parents was a Saracen. He wasn't especially tall, and his build seemed slight, but he'd just shown himself to be quick and nimble on his feet. After sizing up this young man, Aiden got the impression that he'd been well-born, and had only recently taken to the life of a bandit.

"Well this is an interesting turn." The Scout said finally, breaking the silence.

"I don't want to hurt you." Aiden replied. "I just want my pack returned to me, along with everything that was inside it when you stole it."

"I saved your life. This is just payment." The Scout motioned with his head to Aiden's pack, which was slung over his shoulder, under his black cloak.

"I don't much like those terms," Aiden moved a step closer, "and I don't recall agreeing to them."

"You could agree to them now."

"Or, I could drag you to Camelot and watch them hang you for banditry and theft."

"Really?" The Scout smiled at him, but it was the kind of smile someone gives you just before they knife you in the stomach. "So they take the word of a coward at face value these days. I'll have to remember that if I ever get such a lovely brand on my face."

"I am no coward." Aiden said, his tone as serious as he could make it.

"Your face says otherwise."

"A brand doesn't make it true." Aiden suddenly wondered why he needed this thief, of all people, to believe him.

"Ahhhh. Is this a sore subject?" The Scout asked mockingly. "Or are you just afraid to talk about it?"

Aiden pointed the sword at the Scout. "You're playing with fire, boy."

"Ohhh, now I'm the one who's scared."

Aiden held the Scout's longbow out in front of him with both hands, ready to snap it in two.

"Just how attached are you to this thing?"

"Okay, now wait a minute." The Scout said, suddenly serious. "Let's not get hasty here. We can be civil about this."

"Can we?"

"How about a trade?" The Scout slipped Aiden's pack off his shoulder, and grabbed the strap with his right hand, although his arm was still sore because the effort made his face scrunch up. "My bow, for your pack?"

"So you can just point it at me again?"

The Scout shook his head in frustration."Well, then we're at a bit of a standstill, aren't we?"

They both just stood there in silence, staring at each other, although their stances were less aggressive now, and neither really seemed poised to attack.

He's right, Aiden thought, but not about the impasse. He was remembering what he'd said about going back to Camelot. Even if Aiden felt like dragging this Scout all the way back to the city, there was no guarantee that anyone would believe what he had to say, or care about it even if they did. For every city guard he spoke to, he was just as likely to find someone willing to pay a bounty as he was to find a former soldier who'd knock him on his backside for betraying his people with cowardice. He'd even run into guards once who wouldn't let him into the city and he certainly couldn't bear dealing with that embarrassment again. No, the Scout was right. This brand would keep a lot of doors closed to him unless he had something better to offer them than an alleged thief.

_Like perhaps a Thane._

That would surely open some of those doors. Bringing that Thane in, before any of the guards that would surely be dispatched soon to find him, would be a far better prize than a Scout. It would be a boon. There would certainly be a bounty, and that would help him eat like he was used to, but more importantly, he'd be known for something else besides the brand. He may still be the Coward to some people, but he'd also be known as the Thane Killer. It was a small victory, but for Aiden, that was enough. But he would need help. He couldn't do it on his own, especially not without his regular weapons and armor. He'd need an ally who could help him track the Thane, someone who knew the area.

Someone who could find another stealther.

"What's your name?" Aiden asked. He wasn't sure yet if this was the best plan, but it was the only one he had at the moment.

"What's yours?" He replied, his voice even haughtier than normal. "Or should I just call you Coward?"

"My name is Aiden." He said, keeping his tone calm and cool. "Now tell me yours."

The Scout cocked his eyebrow. He was pressing his sword hand against his sore shoulder, rubbing it. Aiden quietly hoped he could still use that arm well enough to handle his bow.

"I am the Eagle of the Shadows, the - "

"Your real name," Aiden said, cutting him off. "Not some bandit title you made up to scare the poor folk."

The Scout smirked at him, then looked away in annoyance. He stared up at the trees nearby, obviously in thought, and Aiden figured he was probably just thinking up a lie to tell him. But he didn't care. He'd use any made up name he was given if it helped him achieve his goal.

"Finias." He said finally, and Aiden was surprised because he actually believed him.

"Well then, Finias. You did save my life, and I'm ready to agree to terms of repayment."

"You are? What terms?" He looked interested now.

"Your service. To me. And mine to you."

Finias huffed in disbelief. "Are you mad? What would possibly make you think I'd agree to that?"

"I want your help to kill that Thane."

Finias just stared at Aiden for a long moment before finally replying. "No."

"Did you see what he did when he ran away? He stealthed. Thanes don't stealth. You stealth. But not a Thane. Something isn't right about this."

"I think it's you." Finias said. "You said it yourself. Thanes don't stealth. So you must be mad."

"I am not mad. I saw it with my own eyes, and you would have too if you'd been paying attention to him instead of my belongings."

"Why should I believe a story like that?"

Aiden held his arms out in exasperation. "Why would I make up a story like that?"

"Because you're mad!"

"What will take for you to believe me?"

Finias shrugged. "How about if he proves it? That's it. I'll believe it when I see it happen right here. Wait, maybe I will see it happen, because he could be right here watching us, couldn't he?" Finias turned left and right, looking dramatically into the shadows nearby. "Here, little Shadowthane. Come out and play with us, because I know you're watching, aren't you?"

Aiden shook his head. "Fine. Whether you believe me now or not, it makes no difference. I just need your help to find him and kill him. That is the bargain."

"This is silly. You're mad. And I have no idea why you'd want to drag me down into your crazy little world."

"Because I can't find out what it is alone."

"So you come to me? Why not the guards?"

"The guards will know soon enough. But I need to find him first. We need to find him."

"Why do you need me?"

"How else do you track a stealther?"

Finias had no response to that, so Aiden stepped forward and continued his argument.

"Listen to me. You don't think that if we brought in a Thane who'd slipped past our frontier defenses, killed two Albion citizens, and was capable of stealth, we wouldn't get something in return? Whether you believe me or not, you should at least be smart enough to know that there will be a reward for him, a reward we don't get if the guards find him first."

Finias thought about that for a long moment. Finally, "I want my longbow back."

"I want my belongings back." Aiden countered.

"Well, Aiden, now you're finally making some sense. Fine. I agree with your poorly thought out little plan. I get my bow, you get your pack, and then we shall find ourselves a thane and make some gold in return."

Aiden stepped forward to stand in front of Finias.

"Don't agree just yet. Before you bind yourself to me, and I to you, you must understand that this is serious. If you break your oath to me, then I will have little choice but to find you and kill you. And because of this brand on my face I'm unable to serve in the army or get any decent work. So I have nothing but time to track down dishonest scouts to the ends of the earth." Aiden held out his hand. "So now... do you agree?"

Finias let out a short chuckle."See, now I know you're mad. But gold can cure many ills, or so I've been told. I agree."

Finias reached out and shook Aiden's hand, and they both smiled, although Aiden knew in the back of his mind that they were smiling for very different reasons. He had no time to linger on that thought, though, as a cloud of crackling blue energy suddenly pounded the forest around them, shaking the trees violently and throwing them both roughly to the ground. Aiden lifted his head and looked all around, trying to find out what just happened, and it was then that he saw his best chance at salvation standing a mere twenty yards away, wearing worn chain armor and carrying a long-handled hammer.

The Thane had found them.

**Chapter 3**

_ The Hammers of Thor, _Aiden thought._ That's what it was._

They weren't actual hammers, of course. They were only manifestations of the magic summoned down by Thanes, shaped to look like the hammer of Thor, their patron god. When a Thane casts this spell, giant magical hammers form in the sky and then smash down onto their enemies, shaking the earth, knocking people off their feet, and sometimes even breaking bones. Runemasters could do the same thing with their Spears of Odin, and Aiden always wondered why the casters of Albion were unable to craft their magic in a similar fashion. The Spears and the Hammers were dreadful things on the battlefield. In fact, he could even swear that when they came crashing down on them in battle, that time itself even slowed down to admire their fearsome majesty.

Of course, watching the spectacle was one thing. Suffering it was another, and that's what had just happened to Aiden and to Finias, his new Scout ally – although 'ally' might be too strong a word. They were both lying dazed on the ground as the Thane, the Norseman from Midgard who'd terrorized them on the path outside Humberton and killed an innocent Highlander merchant couple, was standing nearby. He was wearing chain armor, and holding a long-handled hammer out in front of him with both hands. Both the Thane and his weapon were surrounded by crackling blue energy, the storm-magic of Thor. This one had just cast down one spell, and he was raising up his hammer to do it again. If the two of them were going to defeat this Thane tonight, they needed to get up off the ground fast.

"Move!" Aiden yelled to Finias, who was just now seeing the Thane through the scattered trees that surrounded them. Aiden ducked behind a tree nearby, ignoring the thick branch lying on the ground that had cracked off from the impact of the last spell. Aiden glanced at Finias, who was just now getting up and looking for cover. "Here!" Aiden yelled, then tossed Finias' longbow, which he'd wrested away from him minutes ago, back to him. Finias looked over and snatched the bow out of the air with his right hand, grimacing at the pain from his sore right shoulder – suffered at the hands of Aiden.

The sky rumbled and Aiden ducked back behind the tree as more giant, magical hammers slammed into the ground around them, shaking the trees and rattling the branches so violently that hundred of leaves and nuts fell to the ground all around them. Aiden turned back toward Finias, who had sheathed his sword and was pulling out an arrow. Finias gave Aiden a nod followed by a roguish grin, then disappeared into thin air, stealthing into the shadows so he could sneak up on the Thane. Aiden knew that it would be his responsibility to keep their enemy distracted so Finias could get to him undetected, so he squeezed the hilt of the dull sword he was holding, took a deep breath, then charged through the trees to take on the Thane.

He dodged left and right as he moved forward, always keeping the trees in between the two of them to make it more difficult for the Thane to target his spells. It proved to be a fortuitous tactic as the Thane raised his hammer to the sky, and a crackling blue lightning bolt struck the tree just behind Aiden, splitting it down the middle. Aiden ignored how close that strike had been and pressed on as the Thane held his hammer up, ready for melee this time. He remembered his no-parry strategy from their last meeting and decided it was still a good idea, so when he finally got close enough to attack, he made sure he was the aggressor. He feinted a high swing, then switched it into a low thrust, which worked. The Thane bought the feint and raised his hammer up, allowing the sword to go into the Thane's midsection – where it bent as soon as it hit the Thane's armor. Aiden pulled the sword back to see that it had bent at an angle about halfway down the blade, giving it a spread out L-shape. Aiden didn't have time to be upset over this development, though, as the Thane swung his hammer in a wide arc that was coming for his head. Aiden waited as long as he could before finally dodging to his left, and his heart skipped when he felt the wind from that swing brush by his cheek.

Aiden held the bent sword out in front of him, waiting for the back swing that was sure to come. Luckily, that was the moment when Finias appeared from the shadows behind the Thane, holding his bow up and pulling back an arrow. Aiden glanced at him, and relief must have been clear on his face because the Thane noticed his gaze and turned to see Finias readying his shot. Aiden ducked away – in case Finias missed – but they were both surprised as the Thane disappeared into thin air, right in front of them.

"Whoa." Finias said. His eyes went wide, then darted all about, and he lowered his bow, not entirely believing what he'd just seen. He'd mocked Aiden only moments ago for claiming the Thane could do this, but there was no denying it now. This Thane wasn't normal.

"Watch out." Aiden turned his head left and right. "He's still here, we just can't see him."

Finias quickly regained his senses and raised his bow again.

"I know how stealth works." He replied, backing away.

Aiden put the bent sword into his belt and quickly reached down to grab a large, club-sized branch laying on the ground nearby. It wasn't a great option, but it was thick and sturdy, and he felt safer with the branch in his hands than he did with that ridiculous sword. He swore to himself that if he got out of this alive, he'd have that sword melted down one day and re-forged into something useful – like a spoon.

Suddenly, the Norseman reappeared a few yards to Finias' right, and Finias responded by yelping in surprise and ducking away to his left. He quickly scurried toward the nearest trees and stealthed again. The Thane was focused on Finias, and Aiden's natural instincts as an Armsman – to keep the biggest threats focused on him – took over. He charged once more, yelling taunts at the Norseman to get his attention, but the Thane stealthed yet again before he could get in range, leaving Aiden standing alone amongst the trees.

"Show yourself!" Aiden yelled out in frustration. "Fight me!"

There was no response, so Aiden just stood there, as silent as he could make himself, and listened to the sounds of the forest around him, hoping he could hear the footsteps that both Finias and the Thane would make while stealthed. A gentle wind was rustling leaves nearby, making it hard to pick out distinctive noises so he started moving around, hoping to get lucky by stumbling on top of one of them. Fate must have been with him, too, because he heard a twig snap nearby, and he stopped again, listening carefully.

Without warning, the Thane suddenly appeared several yards to Aiden's left, and he charged toward two clustered trees that were growing around each other. When he reached the trees, he bellowed, shouting another Thane spell that caused everything around him to tremble. Finias then appeared, falling backward from the behind the trees, having been knocked out of his own stealth by the Thane's tactic. The Thane must have decided that Finias needed to be dealt with first, because he quickly sidestepped the trees and raised his hammer, looking to crush the young Scout's skull.

Aiden was already moving, though, and Thane turned at the last second and held his hammer up, parrying the branch away. He parried again and again, as Aiden pressed the attack, giving Finias time to pop back up and sprint away several steps, getting distance between him and the two warriors. For the hundredth time Aiden wished for a better weapon, or any weapon for that matter, because between the bent merchant's sword and this tree branch, he'd barely put a scratch on this Thane. And his plan had been to kill him? He thought back to Finias' comment about a 'poorly thought out plan' and he realized that the Scout had been right – again.

So he needed a new plan. He thought back to his training, trying to remember anything that would be helpful here, anything he could use or do to handle a dangerously powerful opponent. He suddenly remembered a lesson he'd learned from one of his trainers in Avalon Marsh, near Adribard's Retreat, about using his environment to gain an advantage. There were shallow pools out there, that proved useful in slowing down an enemy's advance if you situated yourself just right. He didn't have shallow pools here, but there was a river close by, which was always dangerous to someone wearing armor. And wasn't a goblin village down there, too?

He had to refocus his thoughts on his enemy as the Thane quickly countered a parry by bringing his hammer forward in a thrust toward Aiden's belly. Aiden just managed to sidestep, but he felt the edge of the hammer's iron head brush by his torso. Fortunately, that allowed Aiden to swing high and smack the Thane square on the side of his head with the branch. The Thane backed away and swung his hammer out wildly, obviously angry about his lapse in defense – and for getting smacked in the head, probably. But that's exactly what Aiden needed right now. He needed the Thane's attention, so he started backing away, drawing the Thane after him. When he saw that he had his attention, he turned and started running toward the riverbank. Toward the goblins.

"Stay with us!" Aiden yelled to Finias as he led the Thane away. "And shoot him!"

"I'm trying!" Finias fired off a shot that just missed the Thane's shoulder, striking a tree nearby instead. He grimaced with the effort, then shouted back. "In case you forgot you hit me in the arm with a rock!"

Aiden ran through the trees, constantly glancing back to make sure the Thane was right behind him, and the Thane didn't disappoint. It took nearly a minute of running and sidestepping around trees and shrubbery before the forest thinned out and he reached a narrow clearing that edged up against the river. He looked left and then right before finally spotting the small batch of huts about fifty yards down the bank that a clan of goblins called home. The Thane had fallen behind a bit since he was carrying about fifty pounds of armor and weapons on him, so Aiden had enough of a lead to do what he needed to do. He started running for the village, shouting like a mad man.

At first there was only one curious goblin peeking out of the front door of his half-sized hut, watching in confusion as Aiden came charging down the riverbank towards him. But as soon as he squealed out a warning, about eight more suddenly appeared from their own huts, quickly brandishing weapons and shields. The goblins in Albion were small creatures, the tallest coming up to a man's waist, with thin, sinewy arms and legs under leathery, faded green skin. They had long, thin faces and long protruding noses, with small bug-eyes peering out from a prominent forehead. They weren't strong, but they were quick and fierce, and dangerous when attacking as a group. They used swords and spears for hunting and fighting, and while a goblin sword would be little more than a dagger for Aiden, their spears would be strong enough to pierce a Thane's chain armor.

Aiden ran towards the closest goblin he could see with a weapon, a long-handled hunting spear. The goblin tried to stick it in his gut as he approached, but Aiden easily sidestepped the thrust, then grabbed the spear and yanked it out of the goblin's hand. The goblin shrieked at him, but Aiden just kicked him in the chest, sending him tumbling away. He saw several more running toward him, yelling at him in their gibbering nonsense that passed for a language, and he immediately targeted the one carrying a big shield. As he ran toward the pack of goblins, he glanced back to see the Thane pulling up and raising his hands to the sky. Aiden knew he had only seconds to get that shield before things became much more complicated, so he ran through the four goblins that were now trying to flank him, parried a sword strike with his spear, then grabbed the edge of the goblin's shield with as strong a grip as he could manage just as the sky above them began to roar.

Blue energy crackled in the air around them as the hammers pounded Aiden and the goblins. Aiden was knocked down to his knees, while the four goblins around him were thrown in four different directions. The goblin with the shield flew off his feet, but Aiden kept his grip on the edge of that shield. When the goblin landed, Aiden threw himself forward, close enough to prod the goblin away with the butt of his spear. The goblin, terrified of the hammers, let go and started running back to the village, where dozens more goblins, mostly women and children, were watching with a terrible fascination.

Most of the goblins still running toward him from the village had stopped or turned back, afraid of what they'd just seen – goblins were incredibly superstitious – but a few hardy ones kept on. One of the goblins nearby, undaunted by the hammers, attacked Aiden with his own spear. Aiden didn't really want to hurt any of them, at least not badly, so he just flung the shield out by its strap and broadsided the goblin with it, knocking him down. He slid his left hand through the loops on the shield, which were a bit tight for him, hefted the spear in his right, and with a renewed sense of vigor, he charged forward, ready to finish this fight one way or another.

The Thane called forth his hammers again, but Aiden was ready for them. He threw himself forward into a roll as the hammers pounded the earth behind him, scattering the chasing goblins. Aiden leaped up from his roll and lunged forward with his spear, and the Thane ducked to his side and responded by swinging his hammer out wide. Aiden managed to jump back but the hammer caught the edge of his shield, and he suddenly worried how many hits it could take from a weapon that size. An arrow whizzed by the Thane's head, and they both glanced over to see Finias standing at the tree line. The Thane decided to ignore him for now, and swung wide again. Aiden jumped back again, but this time he used the Thane's long backswing to his advantage and jumped in close, trying to hook him with his shield arm and hold him in place while he jabbed him with the spear. The Thane pushed him off, then shouted his bellow again, trying to knock Aiden off his feet, but the cagey Armsman was prepared for that, and he held his ground against the buffeting wind from that spell.

Another arrow flew by, this time clipping the Thane on the side of his hand. It didn't pierce the armor, but he definitely took notice this time, and visibly contemplated breaking off to attack Finias instead.

"Don't scare him!" Aiden shouted, not taking his eyes off the Thane. "Kill him!"

Aiden lunged with the spear, trying to keep the Thane focused on him. The Thane parried away the spear and just stood there, though. He was obviously trying to stay on the defensive now, which would make things difficult if Finias couldn't just kill him. Aiden shook his head and leaped forward with a feint to the Thane's head. The Thane just leaned away, so Aiden swung the spear again, and again. Each time, the Thane knocked the thrust away with his hammer or simply sidestepped. Aiden finally grew frustrated and decided to gamble. He feinted low with his spear, going for the legs, and deliberately lowered his shield to leave an opening for the Thane. The Thane hesitated, but he took the bait. After dodging the feint, he raised his hammer and swung down, and Aiden quickly raised his shield and prayed it would hold.

Aiden felt the wood crack as the hammer hit the shield, but that gave him the opening he needed. He leaned in and thrust the spear down, and it dug deeply into the Thane's thigh. He cried out, and yanked his leg away, freeing it from the spear, but Aiden just spun around and thrust the butt end of the spear into his gut, sending him staggering back, clutching his stomach with one hand and his leg with the other. Aiden sensed the advantage now – finally – and he was determined to end this. He strode forward, ready for another feint and thrust, only this one would be fatal. He hefted his spear up and decided that this time he'd be aiming for the heart.

Suddenly, an arrow stuck into the Thane's throat. The Thane's head jerked back and his eyes went wide. He dropped his hammer and started clutching at his throat helplessly as blood poured out of the wound. Aiden turned to see Finias standing at the edge of the treeline, readying another arrow. A second ago he'd been ready to kill the Thane himself, but he waited instead, and watched as Finias knocked the next arrow, pulled it back, and – after a moment's hesitation – let it fly. The arrow sailed across the clearing and pierced into the skull of the Norseman, and the momentum of the impact carried him over, toppling him onto his side, dead before he hit the ground.

Aiden walked up next to the body and stared at his vanquished enemy. Blood was still pouring from his throat, but there was no movement, no breathing, no nothing. Aiden finally let himself take a deep breath, reveling in the knowledge that it was done. The Thane was dead, the old Highlander couple – and who knows who else – were avenged, and they could finally take the body to Camelot and get their due reward. He smiled, barely, and turned to look at Finias, expecting to see the same. But there was no smile, no sly expression, no flippant remarks. All Aiden could see was a young man, barely out of teens, with a look on his face that he'd seen a hundred times before in the realm wars. It was the look of a man who had just taken his first life, and realizing that there was no going back.

**Chapter 4**

Aiden and Finias spent almost an hour carrying the Thane's body back to Camelot, and as the looming city gates came into view over the horizon Aiden was surprised to find himself feeling a little excited. Ever since he'd been accused of cowardice and branded as such on his face he'd despised the place and feared going back there. Going to Camelot, the capitol city of Albion, was a difficult task for him because it was too crowded and too easy for someone to see him, and notice his mark. The people there would speak to him normally at first, but as soon as they saw his brand their face would change, sometimes obviously, especially anyone who'd been in the realm wars recently. And if it was hard to see that in a village like Humberton, where he'd come across a few dozen people at most, it was a hundred times worse in Camelot.

But today was different. Today he would be returning a hero. He'd killed the Thane that had murdered two Highlander merchants on the east road from Humberton, and he was bringing the body back to claim his due. Technically, Finias had provided the killing shot, but they'd fought him together, and Aiden had been the one to push them both into the battle. Their reward would be gold, which would please Finias, and honor, which would please Aiden. Tonight would be the beginning of his road back to respectability, and maybe even to his former spot in the army, fighting for his nation in the realm wars. He hated those who'd branded him, and who had spurned him since, but he loved this land, and he desperately missed fighting for it. After tonight, he'd be one step closer.

After they killed the Thane, Aiden had made peace with the goblins by trading his food for some rope. Normally, it would have been a terrible deal - rope wasn't that hard to find - but Aiden wanted the goblins to leave them alone while they tied up the body and carried him away. And it kept him from feeling too guilty about keeping the spear he'd pried away from one unlucky goblin. They'd used the rope to create two crude harnesses, one for the Thane's shoulders and one for his feet. Aiden carried one end of the Thane by looping the shoulder harness rope over his shoulder, while Finias did the same with his feet, and the two of them slowly lugged the body, still wearing the heavy chain armor, out of the forest and back to the road.

Finias barely spoke the entire trip back, which Aiden found odd. He didn't see the young Scout as the quiet, introspective type. In fact, he expected him to boast the entire walk back to the city, but he didn't even do that. Aiden made one attempt at conversation with him shortly after reaching the path to Humberton, asking Finias what he'd spend his money on, but he'd only replied with a terse, distant "I don't know." Aiden suspected that he knew what was on the boy's mind, though, so he let him be. Besides, they'd both just survived a battle that they were lucky to win, not to mention one they shouldn't have been in to start with. Now was as good a time as any to be introspective.

The sun was setting as they reached the outskirts of Humberton, and nearly everyone was inside by now. One old man was sitting on a chair outside his small, stone house, and he watched the two of them curiously as they trudged slowly along the road just east of town. Aiden wondered what that old man must be thinking or whether he'd say something, but he never left his chair and he never said a word. Once they'd passed Humberton, all that was left was a short, straight stretch of road bounded on either side by a row of inscribed Roman columns that led right up to the north gates of Camelot. They'd no doubt find someone there eager to take the Thane off their hands, which by now a sore and aching Aiden would more than appreciate.

Standing ahead of them at the gates were four guards, Armsmen, none of whom looked to be that interested in keeping an eye on things. Three were standing in a bunch, talking and laughing, while the fourth was leaning against the wall, staring at the ground, trying to keep his eyes open. They'd have heard about the Thane by now, but they must not have expected anything to come of it this very moment. But when they saw Aiden and Finias approach they started paying attention. Even the sleepy one was alert as they all gathered to watch the travelers approach their station.

_ Carrying a body can do that,_ Aiden thought.

One of the three talkative guards, probably the watch leader, walked up to them before they reached the actual gate. He held up his hand and looked curiously at the Thane's body.

"What is this?" He asked.

"This is the Thane," Aiden said, keeping his head down. He had his hood on, but that wouldn't help him much if he looked the guard in the eyes. "The one that killed some merchants outside Humberton."

The guard just stared at the body, then at the two of them, then back at the body.

"You killed him?" He asked, incredulously.

"Aye. We both did." Aiden nodded back toward Finias.

The guard stepped closer, trying to get a better look at Aiden, and he fought the urge to look away. Hiding his face now would be too obvious, so he just stood there and let the guard stare at him. His eyes narrowed when he saw the brand, and Aiden avoided the gaze by looking at the other guards. The watch leader didn't say anything to him, but Aiden could already feel every thought that was going through his mind. He'd come to know them all by now. Finally, the guard turned away and held up his hand to the others.

"Open the doors!" He said. Two of the guards started pulling one of the gates, opening it enough to allow them to pass through. The watch leader walked in with them and shouted at some more guards standing around at the base of a watch tower just inside the walls. "You two," he pointed at the two closest to him, then motioned to the Thane, "take this to the Palace."

The two guards jogged up and took the rope harnesses from Aiden and Finias, who eagerly slid them off. Once they had the body secured, the watch leader motioned them all along as he led the way to the Palace of Camelot City, where King Arthur himself once ruled. Of course, that was long ago, and most of the realm had moved on since his death nearly thirty years ago - a death that fractured the realms and led to the current wars with Midgard and Hibernia. But there were still reminders all about of his legacy, including the famed Round Table that still sat in the Palace to this day, used by King Constantine, Arthur's successor, when he held his own Council.

Aiden caught himself admiring the city as they walked along the wide stone-cobbled streets. He'd been here many times before when he was younger, and even though he'd not been back for almost two years, he found that everything he remembered was just as it was in the old days. The cathedral-like Church of Albion still loomed over the road to his left, towering over the entire northern section of the city. The entrance to the underground Catacombs still sat nestled against the outer wall, facing the back of the church. He was sure that deeper in the city he'd still find the Academy, the stables, and the market all as he left them, and even the guild halls for the Defenders of Albion, where he'd spent a good portion of his younger years training to be an Armsman.

But they weren't going that way tonight. Just past the Church they took a right down another wide path, which then led to a left that led straight up to the outer walls of Palace. As they approached, the watch leader slowed down and motioned the guards carrying the Thane to go ahead. He then pointed to a stone bench nearby and looked at Aiden and Finias.

"Wait there, while we announce you." He said. That seemed odd to Aiden. He'd expected that they'd be there when the body was brought in, so they could be properly recognized. Why would they have to wait outside for that? Aiden just nodded, though, and watched the guards walk through the large wooden gates and into the Palace. He didn't want to mess up his chance to reclaim his honor by complaining. He was starting to feel anxious about all of this, and he figured he needed a minute to gather his thoughts anyway, so he sat down. Finias seemed a bit agitated by having to wait, shaking his head at the guards as they disappeared through the gates, but after a moment, he sat down as well.

They sat in silence, each of them lost in their thoughts. Aiden couldn't help but wonder what this would mean for him. He had to keep his expectations low because he knew deep down that his life wasn't going to completely turn around tonight. But it was hard not to want the last two years to just disappear, and for everything to be back the way it was. He missed his old life dearly, and he wanted it back more than anything, but he had to temper himself. The most he could honestly expect from this was a small reward and maybe some kind words, or a proclamation at the most. The brand wouldn't go away – at least not without some Clerics willing to go to a lot of trouble – but he hoped that killing this Thane would at least start the process of healing his reputation, just enough to lessen the burden and the shame he felt when people saw him. He wanted so much more than that, but for tonight, he was willing to accept less, a lot less, as long as he knew things were headed back up for him.

All he wanted was hope.

"So," Finias began, breaking the silence, "just how big a reward do you think this is worth?"

Aiden shrugged. "I don't know. I would guess at least a few gold. Each."

"That's it?" Finias seemed disappointed. He thought about that for a few moments, then, "That seems low."

"Perhaps." Aiden agreed. He glanced over at the young Scout, who was staring down at the ground, all of his frivolity and arrogance gone. Aiden barely knew him, but he was certain that this wasn't the same man he'd met a couple hours ago. He wondered again about his initial impressions of Finias, and he became more and more convinced he'd been right on every count. "You've never killed a man, before, have you?"  
>Finias looked at him in surprise, then quickly looked away. He forced a laugh out. "You can't be serious. Have you forgotten how we met?"<p>

"You're right." Aiden nodded slowly, faking thoughtfulness. "I apologize."

"As well you should."

"Tell me about it, then."

"About what?"

"The first time you killed a man."

"You don't believe me?"

"Of course I do. I just want to hear the story."

"You first."  
>"Fine." Aiden said. "It was an elf. A Nightshade, surprisingly enough. I'd been sent out with a small group to garrison the mile gate in preparation for a raid force that was coming out shortly after us. Before we got there we were ambushed by an advance force of Hibs." Aiden smiled for a second as the memories of it came back to him. "They hit us from behind, and if one of us hadn't been keeping a close eye on our surroundings, it would have been over fast. Fortunately, it wasn't. In fact, it was a spectacular battle... and it's the most vivid memory I have of my time in the frontiers."<p>

Aiden sighed, remembering the details of that afternoon. The clanging of swords on shields, the sting of sweat running into his eyes, the heat from a blaze of fire one of his Wizard realm mates cast and the smell of smoke afterward. He wanted to feel it all again.

"Anyway," he continued, "we fought back and forth for at least five minutes, neither side really able to take the advantage, and of course all I did was stand there looking like an idiot. That's all you do your first few times. You try not to screw up what your mates are trying to do. But after a few minutes, another patrol group of albs found us and we managed to turn the tide and slaughter all the Hibs. I'd contributed almost nothing to the fight, but I saw a Nightshade trying to run away, so I pulled out my crossbow, chased after him, aimed for his head – and ended up shooting him in the calf instead. He stumbled, so I ran over there and pulled out my sword."

"He tried to fight back, but he was already hurt pretty bad, and I was too eager to prove myself, and make up for not doing enough earlier. So I killed him. I did my duty and I drove my blade right through his gut, and he died." He paused for a few seconds, letting the memories flow through his mind. "But, I realized afterward that I'd seen something in his eyes just before. It wasn't fear, I don't think he was afraid for his life. I think it was just sadness. I think he just wanted to get away and go home, and he was sad that he couldn't. That I was taking that from him. For a long time I wondered if I would have held my blade if I'd recognized that sooner. If I would have just let him go." Aiden let his voice trail off.

"And?" Finias said, filling the void. "Would you?"

"No." Aiden finally responded. "I wouldn't."

They were both quiet for a long moment.

"So, you remember it all that clearly?" Finias asked. "The whole thing?"

"You never forget it." Aiden said, and then flinched when he realized what he was telling his young companion. Finias was obviously an excellent shot, but Aiden was sure he'd never killed anyone before tonight, and now he was trying to come to terms with that. And he certainly didn't need anyone telling him that he'd relive that moment for the rest of his life. He wondered if that's why Finias was out here in the woods in the first place, and not putting his talents to use in the realm wars. Maybe he'd never had it in him before now.

"So, you want to hear the story of my first kill?" Finias asked.

"No." Aiden said. "You can tell me later."

They continued to sit quietly for another minute before finally hearing voices approach from the other side of the Palace gates. They each lifted their head up and listened, glancing at each other quickly, then watching the doors, waiting. When the doors finally did open, the watch leader stepped through along with five additional guards. Aiden wondered if they were an escort of some kind as he and Finias both stood up and took a couple anxious steps toward the approaching guards. The watch leader stopped in front of them and held out his hand, which was closed. He was holding something.

"Here's your reward." The watch leader said, dropping some coins into Aiden's hand first, and then into Finias'. "Now go home, and say nothing about this to anyone."

Finias looked at the coins curiously. "This is five silver."

"Yes it is." The watch leader responded with a stern tone. "Is that a problem?"

"I should think so." Finias responded, his voice starting to rise. "How is killing that thing only worth five silver?"

The watch leader scowled and stepped forward, standing as menacingly close to Finias as he could. The other guards started to get restless, too, as Aiden noticed two of them rest their hands on the hilts of their weapons.

"I think you should take your money, keep your mouths shut, and go home," the watch leader said, "before we decide that even five silver is too much for the likes of you."

Finias just stared back at him, either choosing not to back down or not realizing how dangerous this situation had become. None of this was turning out like Aiden had planned. He'd wanted little from tonight, just enough to prove to everyone that he was a better person than what his brand showed him to be, and he wasn't even getting that. In fact, he was very near to things getting far worse than he could have expected. They were in an empty street, at dusk, surrounded by guards who'd just cheated them of their rightful reward. One misstep, and they could end up in prison, or dead.

Aiden put his hand on Finias' shoulder. "Come on." Luckily, the Scout allowed himself to be pulled away from the confrontation, and the two of them walked back down the street as the guards stood their ground and watched them leave. Aiden led them back around the corner, trying not to look back, while Finias couldn't help but glare back at them constantly. Once around the corner, Aiden stopped where he was, closed his eyes and just shook his head.

"So what do we do now?" Finias asked, obviously annoyed. "We can't let them throw us out like that. They took the reward for themselves! That's why they kept us outside."

There would be no recognition. There would be no real reward. No one would know what he'd done and no one would even bother to believe him if he tried to tell them about it. The coward's brand might as well be a liar's brand now. Killing the Thane was the guards' victory tonight, not his, and any dream he might have had about turning things around tonight, any little glimmer of hope he was still holding on to, those were all just drifting away in the cool evening wind.

"Well?" Finias asked.

All of this had been for nothing, Aiden realized. Nothing.

"Say something, you lunk. What do we do?"

"We do nothing." Aiden said quietly. "This was a mistake."

"What? Nothing?" Finias shook his head in disbelief. "I didn't spend all evening chasing down some killer Norseman just so I could be robbed. Where are you going?"

Aiden had started walking again, heading back down the path toward the city gates. He stopped and barely glanced back at Finias, too ashamed to even look him in the eye.

"I'm going home." He said, and he continued walking down the path toward the gates.

Alone.

**Chapter 5**

Aiden hiked slowly along the narrow, tree-lined dirt path that led to his house in the hills south of the Black Mountains. The sun had set long ago, and the forest had completely surrendered to darkness. The trails out here could be a dangerous, twisting maze even in the sunlight, in darkness they were just short of treacherous, but Aiden knew this one intimately, and he could wander it without thinking and still make it home in good time. And that worked out well for him, because he wasn't thinking about where he was going. He was thinking about where he could have been.

All he had wanted was some hope. A glimmer of it, even. Just enough to let him know that God hadn't completely forgotten about him. Or to show that He wasn't playing a cruel joke with Aiden's life. He had nothing left. Nothing to strive for. Nothing to live for. But he'd always trudged on, persevering through all of his trials, waiting for the moment to arrive where he could take back his life. He was sure that moment had come tonight. And he'd let himself believe in it, only to see everything yanked away from him just when it mattered most. But he didn't hate God for that. He hated himself... for thinking he was more than a useless, cowardly old Armsman.

The path faded back into grass and the trees around him opened up into a small clearing where he could see the moonlight shining down on the roof of his small house. A shack, really. It was a single room, with enough space for a bedroll, a small table, a stove, a cupboard and some shelves. No one would ever call it fancy, or even quaint. But it kept the rain off and the wind out, and it was remote enough that few people ever bothered him. The wood was old and bent, and the roof constantly needed repairs, but Aiden didn't mind since it gave him something to do when he was tired of feeling sorry for himself.

A bark greeted him from the darkness, and a moment later a gray-haired dog wandered up to meet him, tail wagging.

"Hey, Bastion." Aiden said quietly, holding his hand out for the dog to sniff, then scratching absentmindedly behind his short, scruffy ears. Bastion was an old hunting dog that once belonged to a Briton a few miles away who'd died of old age. He'd found Aiden shortly after that and decided he liked it well enough around here that he'd stay for a while. Aiden couldn't really afford to keep him well fed, but he didn't mind having the company some days so he gave him what he could and let him stick around. The dog was pretty well past his prime now, mostly deaf, and rarely did anything except lay around and watch for forest critters to run by, but Aiden didn't care. It was someone to talk to that didn't care about the brand on his face, and that was enough for him.

Aiden opened the door to his house and walked inside, while the dog followed him in and settled down in his familiar spot near the stove. Aiden threw off his cloak, dropped his pack on the table, and leaned the goblin spear he was still carrying against the wall, then fished for the lantern sitting on the cupboard. Hit lit it and then kneeled down near the foot of his bedroll to unlock the heavy iron chest that sat nestled in the corner. Inside the chest were all of his weapons and armor from his time in the wars. At the bottom, face down, was his shield, with his armor pieces stacked up neatly on top. Laying on either side were two swords, one long, used for open field fighting, and one short, used in the brutal shield walls. He looked at it all and wished he'd had it when fighting the Thane. But really he wished for a chance to use it again. Instead, he just pulled out the bent merchant's sword that was hanging from his belt and tossed it into the chest. He closed it and locked it, then laid down on his bedroll, letting out a long, slow sigh. All he wanted right now was to just clear his mind and go to sleep and hopefully forget everything that had happened tonight.

But he couldn't forget. He never did.

_ This one's for you, father. I hope you're happy now._

Finias lifted the heavy mug of ale and drank, sucking it all down in one long gulp after another. It tasted suspiciously watery, but he didn't care. It wasn't the ale on his mind tonight. He was still in Camelot, at a tavern called Ye Mug, a loud, raucous place on the corner of Fountain Square, in the eastern part of the city. He was sitting alone at a small table in the back of the room, his Scout instincts helping him keep a low profile. He'd been here for about an hour now, watching the Britons, Saracens, Highlanders and even an Avalonian or two drink, sing, and laugh all around him. Finias wasn't here to get drunk with them, though. He was here because he needed to be around other people. He wanted to be somewhere where he could peer into someone else's life and not have to think about his own.

"One more." He said to a passing barmaid, a pretty young woman with dark hair, who looked so flustered that Finias suspected she was new. "And some of that Yarley's sausage."

No matter how intently he watched the other denizens of the tavern, though, he had trouble getting the day's events out of his mind. He was angry about getting cheated out of his full reward by the guards and he was incredibly annoyed by Aiden's cowardice after the old fool had spent all evening riling Finias up to his cause. But those were small things. What really troubled him was the Thane, who was dead by Finias' own hand. He'd killed him. He'd aimed for his neck and head, fired both shots, and those arrows hit exactly where he'd wanted them to hit. There was no mistake. He didn't kill him by accident. He'd done it entirely on purpose, because he wanted to, and now he couldn't stop seeing the Thane's body in his head, arrows protruding from his neck and skull, blood everywhere. But the worst part of it all, what had him sitting in this tavern drinking watery ale, is that he wanted to be sick about it, but he wasn't. He didn't feel nearly as bad about this as he should.

_ I did it because it had to be done, _he thought. _I did the right thing._

He needed to believe those words, even though they felt shallow. He remembered what Aiden had said about killing that elf, his first kill. He'd told Finias that he didn't have any mercy for that elf, even after seeing in his eyes his last desire. That was duty, though, right? Aiden was a soldier, in a battle, and he'd killed someone who had been trying to kill him just moments earlier.

He did what had to be done. Just like the Thane.

Finias desperately wanted to believe that he'd done the same thing. That he'd done his duty, for Aiden, for the memories of the dead merchants, for the realm. He was a soldier, and tonight his battle had been stopping that Thane. He wasn't a murderer. Not like his father, and his brother. Not ever like them. He was a soldier. At least for one short night.

His rumination was interrupted when he realized a man had approached his table. Finias looked up and saw a middle-aged Briton with long, graying hair standing nervously at the other end of his table. He wore ratty-looking, brown woolen robes, and was leaning on a thin wooden staff. He guessed the man was a Friar who'd fallen on hard times lately, because he looked to have lived a very hard life. In fact, he'd have thought him a beggar if beggars were allowed in the taverns. Finias watched him raise a fidgety hand in greeting, and Finias nodded back but didn't say anything. The Friar looked like he was about to sit down in the extra chair, but then stopped himself awkwardly and looked to Finias for permission. Finias nodded, slightly amused now that the ale was starting to kick in, and the Friar sat down.

He sat nervously in the chair, and kept leaning forward like he was about to say something, then changing his mind at the last second and looking away at the crowd of patrons instead. This happened five times before Finias decided he couldn't take it anymore.  
>"I don't have any coin for you." He said loudly, over the din of several Highlanders singing at the next table. The Friar looked at Finias and muttered something that no one could possibly hear.<p>

"What?" Finias said, leaning closer. The Friar looked uncomfortable, and he scanned the crowd again before finally leaning in closer.

"I'm not a beggar." He said, just loud enough to hear.

"Then who are you?"

"I-I'm Riordann." He replied, stammering.

"Riordann?" Finias asked, and the Friar nodded, then scanned the crowd again. The man was awfully fidgety. He was constantly either wringing his hands or rubbing his face. His erratic behavior made Finias wonder if he might be sick or even a little mad.

"I-I-I saw you." He said, stammering. "With the Thane."

"Aye?"

"You killed him?" The Friar asked. "You and – and – and the other man?"

"Yeah." Finias gave Riordann a fake smile and took a quick drink. "But I've been told that I can't really talk about it."

"You're in danger." Riordann said in a loud whisper.

"What?"

"You're in danger, here." He repeated, louder this time. "I have to talk to you, outside."

Finias narrowed his eyes at the slightly crazy man sitting across from him. That was certainly an odd request, and he didn't normally follow slightly crazy men he'd just met in a tavern outside into the street at night, but he found himself intrigued by whatever this Friar had to tell him. Tonight had already been dangerous, thrilling and completely unpredictable so the chances were pretty good by now that the rest of it would be ridiculously mundane and he wouldn't be walking into something dangerous. Besides, right now he was willing to throw his reservations aside for a while if it gave him something else to mope about besides his own life. Either that or the ale was a lot stronger than he'd first thought.

"Sure. What the hell." Finias said, and started walking towards the door.

"No. Not the front door." Riordann said. "The back. We should go out the back."

_Even more foolish, _Finias thought wryly, but he still didn't care so he followed Riordann through the crowds and out the tavern's back door. The door led into a narrow, dimly lit alley that was crowded with wooden crates and boxes, small piles of hay and trash, and linens hanging from windows. At first glance it seemed to be empty, but there were so many hiding places that it was impossible to be sure. Finias smiled a bit at that, wondering just how completely stupid he was being, and how little he cared. Still, he had just enough self-preservation in him right now to at least let his hand rest on the hilt of his sword. Casually, of course.

"You're in danger." Riordann began cautiously, after also scanning the alley.

"You mentioned that already. From what?"

"From them!" Riordann pointed vaguely off in the distance. "The men you gave him too."

"The guards?"

"No. No, not just them." Riordann looked around again, then lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "The people at the palace. The King and his councilors."

Finias began to wonder if Riordann was crazier than he initially thought. "The King is after me?" He asked.  
>"Not him. Not exactly. It's his men. They don't want anyone to know about them. About what you found. They're keeping it all a secret. That's why you and your friend are in danger."<p>

"Uh huh." Finias nodded slowly. He was close to laughing at the absurdity of it all, but he decided that he curious enough to see where this was going, and laughing out loud at this poor man wouldn't make that easy. "A Thane wanders by Humberton of all places, kills people in broad daylight, and that's supposed to stay a secret? Sounds like they have their work cut out for them."

"Listen. You have to listen to me." Riordann said, nearly pleading. The look on his face clearly told Finias that he was formulating his argument as he went along. "I did what you did. I found something like you did, and they threw me in jail for it. For three months!"

"Three months? Wow. For finding a Thane?"

"No. No, not-not exactly. It wasn't a Thane. It was... something, though. And they threw me in jail for it. For warning them!"

Finias made a show of looking up and down the alley. "You don't look like you're in jail right now."

"I escaped! I got out, because... because I have to fix it."

"I think, Riordann, that maybe you just need to go home and get some sleep."

"No! No sleep. No, I-I-I need to fix this. And I need help. From both of you."

"You too, huh?" Finias shook his head. His curiosity was quickly turning to boredom. "Do I have a sign over my head that just draws you loons in from all over?"

"I'm not a loon." Riordann said slowly, obviously getting frustrated. "Listen. The Thane... he-he wasn't just a Thane was he?"

That struck a chord, and Finias eyed the old Friar carefully. "What do you mean?"

Riordann smiled. "I'm right, aren't I? It was one of them? A fourth realmer?"

"Start making some sense." Finias stepped closer to Riordann. He was now taking this conversation much more seriously. "What's a fourth realmer?"

"It's what I call them. They're Midgardians, Hibernians, even our own Albion brothers, but they've forgotten who they are. They fight together, against all the rest of us and they share their abilities. Warriors with magic and stealth, mostly, but I'm sure it works the other way, too. They're not of the three realms, so they're fourth realmers. And they're coming for us."

"How do you know this?"

"I told you. We found them, in the frontier first. But now they're here."

"Who is 'we'?" Finias asked. Riordann was slow to respond.

"My friends." He said finally, but he looked away from Finias as he spoke. "My friends and I found them."

"Where are your friends, Riordann?"

"They're dead. Like you will be soon."

Finias was struggling to push past the effects of the ale so he could make sense of what he was hearing. This story could all be in Riordann's head, even his supposed friends. But he seemed genuinely distracted by the thought of them. And he'd known about the Thane's ability to stealth. Well, not stealth specifically, but who else would know anything about that besides Aiden and himself... unless he was telling the truth.

"This is my fault." Riordann said to no one in particular. "I found them first, and... and I told them about it. Now they want to keep it a secret so they can use it, but you know now." He looked at Finias with scared eyes. "Now you know."

"Who exactly is coming for me?"

"They're not stupid." Riordann continued as if Finias hadn't spoken. "They let you think everything is normal, then they come and take you in the middle of the night." He looked up at the night sky. "Nights like this."

"Riordann, look at me." Finias grabbed the Friar's shoulders. "Now, let's just suppose that all of this is true. What do you suggest we do about it?"

"You have to let me help you fix this." Riordann said, finally looking Finias in the eye.

"Okay. How do we fix it?"

"We have to find your friend." He said. "We need him too. We can't do this alone."

**Chapter 6**

"Something moved over there." Riordann pointed at the darkness between two houses in the distance, his hand visibly shaking with what Finias assumed was nervous tension.

"I'll go check it out." Finias assured him as he started jogging in that direction.

They'd left Camelot about half an hour ago, ignoring the curious gazes from the gate guards on night duty, of whom Riordann was especially wary. He'd claimed to have escaped from a dungeon in Camelot only days ago, and he told Finias on the way out that he'd been too afraid to try and leave for fear that they would recognize him and throw him right back into that dank prison. Finias had spent nearly the entire previous hour convincing him that they would be just fine walking through the gate as long as he stuck to the ruse that he was Finias' drunk father. It had worked just fine, too, because Riordann's overly nervous demeanor had only served to sell the guise even more than expected.

Now the two of them were in Humberton, the village just outside the north gate of Camelot. It was the middle of the night and the two of them were randomly knocking on doors, waking everyone up in the hope that someone here would know where Aiden lived, or could at least point them in the right direction. Riordann was adamant that they needed his help to save them from the trouble they were in, though Finias had no idea why he was so necessary. He figured they could just leave him a note here in town warning him that he may be in danger, because what good was a cowardly old Armsman to them at a time like this? In fact, if Riordann wasn't so eager to find him Finias would have suggested they just move on without him, especially since locating him was no easy task.

They'd waken people at five different houses so far, each more aggravated by the intrusion than the last. They'd awoken one especially angry old man who yelled at them for a good two minutes before Riordann calmed him by apologizing profusely. The worst part, though, was that they all knew who he was - the Coward from the Black Mountains – but no one could be more specific than that in describing where he lived. They just pointed off to the north and expected that to be enough to track down one man in the hills in the middle of the night. When pressed for more information, one of the villagers told them "He lives in the woods, you crazy buggers. It's not like they number the lots out there", and that had been the most useful information they'd received so far tonight.

Finias let his annoyances fade to the background, however, as he slowly approached the two houses Riordann had pointed out. He was walking as softly as he could, keeping his keen eyes focused on the darkness, looking for any sign of movement. He wasn't stealthed, although he was fighting the urge to do it, albeit just for show. He was sure he'd know if they were being followed, and he didn't think they were, despite Riordann's protestations. If they were being followed he'd know what signs to look for, and he would be stealthed, and right now he was comfortably secure enough to think that they weren't. But he'd let Riordann's anxiety get to him so he wanted to be sure, and he wanted Riordann to calm down so he dutifully checked things out for him – the fourth time he'd done so since leaving Camelot.

He reached the corner of the first house and peeked around. He stayed silent, scanning the darkness for anything that would betray movement. An oak tree stood proudly in the grass behind the two houses, a few of it's branches swaying in the gentle breeze. But other than the rustling leaves, nothing out here was moving. If someone was following them, he was damn good at it. So good, in fact, that Finias wouldn't be able to spot him anyway. So why worry about something he couldn't do anything about?

"Nothing." He said as he jogged back toward the Friar. Riordann just nodded quickly while anxiously checking their surroundings. When he'd first met the old Friar this evening Finias was completely sure he was talking to a stark raving lunatic whose claims of death and danger around every corner were just delusions of an old man and his ale. But now, somehow, he'd let himself be convinced that maybe someone really was after him for his role in killing the mad Thane that had terrorized them just a few short hours ago. Riordann had mentioned things about the Thane he shouldn't have known, things only Aiden and himself would know, so now Finias believed some of the old Friar's rants. To a point. There was still a small part of him that wondered if this was all a giant waste of time.

"Is this how they got you?" Finias asked while the two of them walked slowly toward the next house. "Sneaking up on you in the middle of the night?"

Riordann nodded. "Infiltrators. I was in Camelot, at one of the Inns in the city. The King's Chamberlain arranged for us to stay there the night we came back from... from finding them. That night, Infiltrators snuck in and took me in my sleep."

Finias pursed his lips. He knew Infiltrators well. They were men and women trained in the art of stealth, poisons, and death. They were spies and assassins, mostly, and they were not to be trifled with if you could help it.

"That's why we had to stay in the city and not at the palace." Riordann continued. "People had to see us. They had to see me go into my room there and never come out, to keep suspicion off the King's men. To everyone there, I probably just left in the middle of the night. Or I snuck away, or went mad, or whatever other rumor was spread to keep suspicion off the King's men."

Finias caught himself wondering if he really believed Riordann's tale. Maybe it was true, or maybe it wasn't. Claiming to be taken in the night by Infiltrators sounded like a story children would tell to scare each other, not a Friar twenty years older than him. Maybe he really did go mad and he'd just made the whole thing up. It was only a passing thought, one of several he'd had tonight about this crazy little jaunt with a madman, but it had jogged his memory, reminding him that he didn't know many of the details about this endeavor. Details he should have asked about much sooner.

"Now that I think about it, you haven't told me where we're going." He asked, trying to sound casual.

Riordann looked off in the distance, but not at anything in particular. "Away from here." He said. "Away from them."

Finias rolled his eyes. "That's... vague. I'm sure you've considered a more specific location?"

Riordann was silent for a long moment, and his gaze subtly shifted from scanning their surroundings to looking at the ground. "We need to go north. They can't find us as easily in the frontier."

"Ahhh. The frontier." Finias nodded in mock agreement. "You're right. Hiding is a war zone is much safer."

"We'll have Aiden with us."  
>"Oh, of course. Him. That should keep the mighty armies of Midgard and Hibernia at bay. One Armsman." Finias chuckled. "You know he's been branded a coward, right?"<p>

"Is he?"

Finias shrugged. "The large brand on his cheek says he his."

"His brand says he is?" Riordann smiled at his own question, which unnerved Finias because he hadn't seen that expression from him yet. "You fought with him, didn't you? What do you say?"

Finias smiled back, ready to give another retort but he found himself strangely silent. He had nothing to say to that, mostly because the Friar was right. He'd seen Aiden in battle, fighting the Thane, and there had been no hint of cowardice there. Sure, he'd walked away from a fight with the guards in Camelot but that didn't make him a coward – even though he'd thought him one at the time – and in hindsight it was probably the smart thing to do for both of them. If he were to be completely honest, if Aiden didn't have the Coward's Brand on his cheek, Finias would have never thought him one.

Riordann glanced at Finias knowingly. "Aiden will do his best to protect us. It's who he is." He walked on toward the next house, no doubt expecting Finias to just follow along. To his own surprise, Finias did, wondering again who this strange old man was. This crazy old Friar who spent one minute seeing monsters in the dark, and the other acting the wise, soothing grandfather. Maybe Riordann was crazier than Finias realized. Either that, or he was far, far smarter.

It took some doing, but they finally found their way toward what they hoped was Aiden's house. A small stone fort sat on the hill just behind Humberton, and one of the guards on the night watch had a friend who'd once served with Aiden many years ago. He didn't know exactly where the old Armsman lived, but he'd heard it was just west of the Black Mountain homesteaders who lived in the remote woods just south of the mountains. He was able to point them in the right direction, and once they were on their way Finias was able to navigate the paths through the forest with ease.

Before leaving the fort, though, Finias asked the guard why Aiden had been branded. Riordann's words had stirred something in him, and now he was curious why a man who had seemed to be such a formidable warrior, and who'd fought in the realm wars for years would suddenly become a coward. The guard just shrugged and said he'd deserted his men during a fight, but he couldn't offer any more information than that. Finias knew there was more to the story, though. He'd seen seen it firsthand, and now he was more than just curious about the whole matter. He needed to know who this man was who'd somehow dragged him into this nightmare. In fact, now he was looking forward to finding him tonight, so he could just ask the old Armsmen himself what he'd done to be marked for life.

It had taken them a good hour of trekking through the paths before they reached the homesteaders, a collection of hundreds of shoddy huts and shacks scattered amongst a number of clearings in the woods. The homesteaders were a community all their own, backwoods hunters and farmers, small-time traders and thieves, outlaws and people just looking to get by without interference from Albion law. This area was remote and hard to get to, so guards rarely came out this way, and tax collectors and census takers had long ago given up trying to get money or information from anyone out here. The homesteaders ignored the Crown's laws and just made their own, respecting their neighbor's privacy and reason for being out here, but demanding enough common sense to not prey on each other. This was where the forgotten people of Albion lived. And, of course, Aiden was beyond even them.

They'd moved quietly past two small groupings of shacks they saw, trying not to alert anyone to their skulking about, and took the first west-leading path they found. The trail was narrow but navigable, despite the scarce moonlight that streaked through the forest canopy. The branches hung low, however, and after a couple scratches to the face, they'd slowed their pace and spent more time ducking under and around them. That only added to Riordann's anxiety, though, making him even jumpier now than he was in Humberton. And that was pushing Finias even closer to his breaking point.

"There's someone over there." Riordan pointed at the darkness between two trees in the distance, then became aware that he was pointing and pulled his hand back, pretending to play with his sleeve.

"No, there's not." Finias replied sourly, not even bothering to look.

"There is." Riordaan protested. "I know I saw someone this time. Someone moved over there."

"Ok." Finias said, not stopping.

"Shouldn't you go check?"

"No."

Riordann jogged up alongside Finias and leaned close, whispering. "But-but that could be them! They could be here!"

"Well, that would just be awful for you."

Riordann stopped, a look of shock on his face. "Don't you care about this? Don't you care about what happens to us?"

Finias sighed and turned back to the Friar. "You know what I think? I think the only thing moving in the darkness is you. I think you're so bloody fidgety that your head shook and you just thought it was the world around you."

Riordann frowned. "You've given up, haven't you?" He asked. A look of concern started to mix with the fear on his face."You can't just give up. Not now."

Finias shook his head and started walking again. "I haven't given up. I'm here aren't I? I'm still walking down this path, in the woods, in the middle of the night, surrounded by a darkness full of everything... oh, except Infiltrators stalking us for the King. No I certainly haven't given up."

Riordann just stood there, saying nothing as Finias continued down the path, ignoring him. It was a long moment before he finally heard the brisk footsteps of the old man trying to catch up. He glanced back to see the Friar trying to move up alongside him on the narrow, branch-lined path.

"They're guarding a treasure." He said furtively. "Where we're going."

"I'm sure there is." Finias responded, not really believing a word. "With mountains of gold and jewels."

"I'm telling you the truth. It was down there. Down... where we found them. Where we found the fourth realmers."

Finias stopped and sighed. He didn't know why he kept entertaining these notions, but for some reason this old man knew what Finias liked to hear. "Okay, then. What kind of treasure?"

"You have to understand something, first. It's-it's not... right. It's tainted treasure. Some of it. It's dark. You have to understand that."

"Understand what? It's still treasure, right? How do you taint gold?"

Riordann's face belied his desperation. He was painfully incapable of hiding whatever it was he was feeling. "I have to be careful, Finias. That's why I haven't said where it is. If everyone knew where the treasure was, they'd go looking for it, and they wouldn't understand – no, no that's not right. They wouldn't _want _to understand that they'd be walking into the same trap we did."

Finias considered that for a long moment. "Is that where we're going, then? Are we going back to the treasure? It's out in the frontier?"

"Yes" Riordann said after a short pause.

"But you won't say where it is?"

He shook his head. "I can't. Not yet. I'm sorry."

"Because it's too dangerous to know that?"

"Yes."

Finias just laughed. He'd had enough of this. "Well, of course. That would be too easy."

"I told you, I have to be careful."

"Then why tell me that? Why not just say we're going to a cave somewhere to kill another crazy Thane?"

Riordann took a deep breath. "Because I need your help. And because I don't know yet what motivates you more. I don't know if you care more about money or about honor. About yourself or about doing what's right."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Finias said sharply.

"What do you care about, Finias? That's an important question, because with the trouble we're in now, I need for you to care about this. Or we're going to die."

Finias was left speechless at that, at this old Friar's condemnation of him and his motivation. Of course he cared about what they were doing. He wouldn't be out here if he didn't, right? He wouldn't have walked out of the tavern, or left the city or spent half an hour waking up cranky old villagers if he didn't feel like he was doing something important. He didn't do anything unless it was important, unless he truly cared about it. And he was tired of being played for a fool.

"You know what I think? I think you're a crazy old man!" Finias said, his voice rising. He shook his head and started pacing around in a circle."How did I even let you talk me into coming out here? I was drunk, that's why. Stupid, Finias. So stupid. All you've actually done is tell me stories and point at every little sound in the dark like it's some bogeyman coming to get you. But you're just a beggar, or worse. Or-or maybe you're a madman seeing nightmares from his time in the wars. That's what you are. That's all that you are." Finias stood there for a moment, expecting Riordann to break down and plead with him, but the Friar wasn't even looking at him. He was staring over Finias' shoulder, unable to even look him in the eye. "And I'm done listening to you."

"You're wrong." Riordann said.

"No. I'm not." Finias replied harshly.

Riordann pointed behind Finias. "Then who are they?"

Finias turned, expecting to see some more shadows in the dark that Riordann was mistaking for assassins. But instead he saw several well-armed men appearing from the trees, men who didn't look like simple homesteaders out protecting their property. They wore expensive armor, their weapons were already drawn, and they were spread out trying to surround the two of them. It was at that moment, as Finias carefully reached for his sword, that he realized that Riordann had been right all along. They'd been followed and he'd missed it. He, of all people, had not realized before now that an armed party was tracking them. He'd made a terrible mistake, one that would probably get them both killed, because he'd let his guard down. As he eyed the men who were now carefully approaching them, he grabbed the hilt of his sword and pulled it from the sheath hanging at his thigh. And he prayed that he lived long enough to learn his lesson.

**Chapter 7**

It was the dog that woke him up.

Aiden stirred from his sleep to hear Bastion scratching at the door and whining, desperate to get outside. The old dog usually slept through the night, only rarely ever waking him to go out. And even on those nights when he did want out, he would make it clear with nothing more than a lazy whimper and a tired gaze. Tonight, however, he was trying to get out like the devil himself was prodding him.

"Hold on." Aiden groaned as he climbed up from his bedroll. In his groggy state, the events of the prior evening seemed distant and vague, and he was glad for that. But he knew the longer he was awake the faster those memories and feelings would come back to him, and he may never get back to sleep tonight if they did. So he was eager to just throw the door open, let the dog out and then fall right back to sleep. Before the horrible details of his life started to seep back in to his consciousness.

Before he could reach the door, though, Bastion's whining turned to barking. Loud, aggressive barking at something on the other side. Just as he was about to shush the dog, the door started to slowly open from the outside. Surprised, Aiden backed away and leaned against the wall on the hinged side of the door, waiting to see who was coming into his house, unannounced, in the middle of the night. Bastion did the same, staying near Aiden and well away from this intruder, but still barking like his life depended on it. The door closed as if being slowly pushed, but Aiden could see nothing in the darkness. The inside of the house was barely illuminated by slits of moonlight that streaked in through a few wooden slats in the roof and from the south-facing wall. It was impossible to see any kind of detail, whether the door was opened or closed, but Aiden could see shapes and edges, and he knew where everything in the room was supposed to be, so he had a pretty clear image in his mind of what was happening. But even with all that, he couldn't make out anything. Where he'd expected to see a person standing, there was nothing.

That's when he realized he was dealing with a stealther. _Finias_, Aiden thought.

Somehow the boy had found out where he lived and was probably here to finish what he'd started on that road outside Humberton - stealing his belongings. Aiden was in no mood for games, though, so he decided to teach the boy a lesson. He didn't want to hurt him, not really, but he did want him to know that he'd gone too far sneaking into his house in the middle of the night. He quickly grabbed the spear leaning on the wall next to him, and swung it out in a wide arc, aiming low for the shins. The spear struck something hard - his ankles, Aiden thought - and a figure appeared from the darkness, his stealth broken by the impact. He toppled forward to the ground, having been caught in mid stride by the blow.

Aiden firmed his grip on the spear shaft and jabbed the point down at the intruder's neck. He was fully prepared to give the young Scout a verbal tongue lashing, but now that he had the stealther lying prone on the ground, he hesitated because something didn't seem right. All he could see was a silhouette and a vague outline, but he was definitely sure that the figure below him was too short and bulky to be Finias, and the clothing he wore seemed off. Had he just caught some other stealther sneaking in his home in the middle of the night, completely by chance? No, that seemed too strange a coincidence, even given his adventure last night. He could be some other thief, maybe a homesteader looking to prey on one of his own. That kind of behavior was rare out here, but it wasn't unheard of. Aiden didn't really believe that, though, so he tapped his bare toes against the man's leg and felt what was unmistakenly some kind hardened leather armor.

His stomach turned. This wasn't Finias, and it wasn't some random burglar. It was an Infiltrator. Panic-fueled questions flooded his mind. Why would an Infiltrator be sneaking into his home at night? Infiltrators didn't break into houses to steal, they did it to kill. Quickly, silently and without mercy. What had Aiden done to warrant a death sentence? He pushed the spear against the man's neck, making it clear that the smallest jab would pierce his throat and kill him. Aiden knew from years of experience that you didn't play nice with Infiltrators, because they certainly wouldn't play nice with you.

"Who are you?" He asked, ignoring the dog, who was still barking.

The man said nothing. Aiden pushed down on the spear just enough to see the man squirm a little bit.

"You either talk to me, or you die. I know better than to let someone like you think you have any other options here."

Aiden wasn't sure, but he swore he saw the man smile in the darkness, and he wondered what could possibly make him so confident. Bastion's barking was incessant now, and it was past the point where he could think clearly. He looked over at the dog, about to yell at him to be quiet, but he saw that the barking wasn't directed at the man on the floor like he thought. He was barking toward the open space to his left, in front of the door. In front of the open door.

Aiden froze. There was another Infiltrator in here.

He knew immediately that he had no time to waste. In fact, the two seconds it would take to lunge the spear into the first Infiltrator's neck and pull it back out would give the second one enough time to stab Aiden in the back before he was ready. That left only one other option. He swung the spear out again, wide to his left, and clipped the second Infiltrator in the arm, breaking his stealth cover. He'd been in the process of leaping back out of the way when he got hit, and now that he was on the far side of the room, Aiden had enough space to bring the butt end of the spear back down onto the first man's head, cracking him in the skull and knocking him senseless.

The second one attacked, leaping forward, and Aiden just managed to move out of the way and bring the spear back to parry one of the two daggers the Infiltrator was no doubt holding. He still couldn't see much in the darkness. He had only a general awareness of movement, and a sense for when and where he would be attacked. That was enough to handle the first few seconds of this fight but it wouldn't keep him alive for much longer than that. He lunged forward with the spear, missing, then jabbed two more times, the second of which was promptly slapped away by the Infiltrator's blade. Aiden expected that, though, and swiped the spear back sideways, forcing the Infiltrator to keep back until Aiden could figure out his plan of attack.

He felt a wickedly sharp, burning pain flare through his leg and he turned to see that the man lying on the floor, the one he'd thought was incapacitated, had jabbed a small knife into his calf. Aiden grunted at the pain, refusing to let them hear him scream, and brought the butt end of the spear down on his head again, this time knocking him out. The second one took advantage of the opening and pounced across the room at Aiden, his daggers flying out in wide arcs. Aiden used the spear like a staff and brought it across his body, trying vainly to defend himself. He was just able to knock away one of the daggers but the other one dug deep into the side of his chest, and this time he cried out with a howl.

Aiden was sure he was going to die. The blade had struck him just under his left arm, aimed for his heart no doubt, and for the briefest of moments he wondered if this was the last thing he would feel in his life. His leg burned, his chest was wracked with pain, and he felt the burning weakness of the poisons the two blades were coated with coursing throughout his body. He expected his strength to fail him at any moment now. His knees would start buckling, and he'd just collapse to the ground and die, lonely and forgotten.

That is until he instinctively twisted away from the pain and the dagger came free with a sharp tug. Aiden had suffered many injuries in his time in battle, and as soon as that dagger came out of his chest, he realized what had happened. Instead of piercing his heart, it had stuck in his rib. By chance or by fate he was still alive, although by the slimmest of margins. The poison might still finish him off but he could still fight, and if he was going to die then he would at least take these assassins to hell with him.

The Infiltrator had hesitated after pulling his dagger free, only for a moment, waiting to see if he'd done enough damage to Aiden to just finish him off. But that hesitation would cost him. Aiden lunged forward now, not with the spear but with his body, using the spear only to keep the daggers at bay. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed the Infiltrator's armor at the shoulder, just managing to get his fingers under the seams around the neck. He dropped his spear and pulled his assailant in close, using his raw strength to spin him around and wrestle him into a bear hug, keeping his arms pinned. The struggle, and Aiden's momentum, knocked them both off balance and they crashed to the ground, the Infiltrator taking the brunt of the fall. Aiden did everything he could to keep the furiously squirming smaller man in his grasp. He grabbed the Infiltrator's right wrist, then pried the dagger in his hand loose and it fell to the wooden floor with a thud. Once he did that, he kept the other arm pinned as best he could and wrapped his free arm around the Infiltrator's neck, fully intending to choke him to death.

The Infiltrator fought for a while, pushing and twisting, trying to break free of Aiden's grasp, but it was of no avail. His last gasp at life was a weak stab at Aiden's leg with his other dagger, which broke the skin but little else. Aiden ignored the pain and squeezed the life out of this man, using all of his anger and pain to fuel him. He didn't let up, not even when his assailant - now his victim - stopped moving. Not until he was sure he was dead. Only when he felt the body go limp in his arms did he finally stop.

Aiden let go and rolled away from the body, his chest heaving from the exertion. The poison was rushing throughout his body now, but he wasn't sure how much of his exhaustion was from that or from the normal rigors of a battle. He laid there for a long moment, catching his breath, trying to ignore the pain from his wounds and he wondered if he could be content with dying now. His attackers were dead - or at least they would be when he could stand and finish off the other one - and he'd been victorious, but he wasn't done with his life yet. He didn't want it all to end with a few bodies rotting away in this shack out in the middle of nowhere. Who would mourn him? Who would even know what he'd done tonight?

The dog started barking again, and he immediately worried that a third Infiltrator was coming. But when he stopped to listen, he realized he was hearing noises from outside the house. Noises that sounded like a battle off in the distance. He stood up slowly, groaning in pain from the blade wounds and fatigue, and he leaned on the wall alongside the door to gather his strength. He quickly inspected his wounds and discovered that he was bleeding pretty badly from his leg, but the chest wound would be okay for a while. He ripped off a piece of his shirt and tied it around the jagged cut in his thigh, hoping it would hold long enough for him to dress it better after the whatever was waiting for him outside the door. When he was satisfied with it, he took a deep breath, opened the door, and looked outside.

The first thing he saw was three men fighting about forty or fifty yards away, straight down the main path to his house. They were illuminated by the moonlight that streaked through the heavy forest canopy along the trail and Aiden could make out what looked to be two Mercenaries, dual-wielders, fairly young, fighting a middle-aged man in dark-colored robes with a staff. A Friar, he realized, and a skilled one at that. Friars were known for their talent at fighting with a stave, and for being powerful healers, and as Aiden watched him duck, dodge and spin away from the attacks by the Mercenaries, he was reminded of a Friar he once knew. A Friar who had watched over him, and helped him learn what it meant to be a soldier of Albion.

The same Friar who was now fighting in front of his house.

Aiden's eyes grew wide as his eyes adjusted to the light and he recognized the face of Riordann before him. Riordann of the Warhounds, one of the few men in that storied unit who'd been a friend to him. And here he was, years later, fighting for his life outside his house in the middle of nowhere. Aiden shook his head without realizing it as the magnitude of what was happening hit him. This was more than chance. And it was far more than just dumb luck. The events of the last day were nothing short of destiny, a long overdue response to every prayer he'd ever made. There was no more doubt now that God was finally, and truly, calling to him, and he wasn't going to miss out on a chance to take back his life.

Aiden ran back inside, moving as quickly as his failing strength would allow him to his chest. He opened it and pulled out his longsword and then dragged his shield out from under the stacked armor that lay on top of it. He hefted the shield on his arm, tightening the straps just enough to feel snug. He held his sword in his hand, feeling comfortable with the weight and balance. He smiled. He'd just survived a brutal assassination attempt, he was wounded in the leg and chest, poisoned, and he was getting weaker by the minute. But he had a friend outside who needed him, a friend who'd come to find him, and he wouldn't fail him now. Aiden loved battle, and after two years away from it, God had felt the need to bring it to him again. He didn't know how this would end, but he was more than happy to prove himself the best way he knew how.

He limped out the front door and down the path in front of his house, banging his sword on his shield as he did. The Mercenaries, who until now had been held at bay by Riordann's staff and healing magic, backed away in surprise. They'd expected to see two Infiltrators walk out of that house, not this stout Armsman who should be dead by now. Aiden glared at them, and he immediately sized them up. They were probably decent enough fighters, but they were still too young. They didn't have enough experience to be fearsome, and now they were confused by Aiden's appearance, and they had no idea how to adjust accordingly. He glanced over at Riordann, who was smiling at him as if nothing untoward was happening.

"Think you could give me a hand here?" Riordann asked.

Aiden nodded and watched as the two Mercenaries started to back away, not sure who they should worry about more. That would no doubt be the last mistake of their lives.

"It would be my pleasure." Aiden replied with a smile. Then he hefted his shield up in front of him, and charged into the fray.

**Chapter 8**

Aiden pulled his sword free from the belly of his opponent, a foolish young Mercenary who'd attacked his friend in the middle of the night, and he watched with heated satisfaction as the man dropped one of his weapons, a brightly polished hand axe, clutched his wound, and fell to his knees. He'd be dead in moments from that wound, but that wasn't fast enough for Aiden, so he threw his sword down into the near-defenseless Mercenary's shoulder, cracking his collar bone and wrenching a chunk of flesh from it. The man's screams permeated the remote, desolate hills around Aiden's home as he collapsed to the ground, where his screams quickly turned to loud, preening groans.

Aiden was about to finish him off when he heard a loud thud behind him. He turned around to see the other Mercenary crumpling lifelessly to the ground, his head misshapen from a cracked skull. Riordann stood over him, his staff held ready, but slowly coming down to rest now that he'd finished off his own assailant. Aiden looked around, just to make sure no one else was coming for them, and when he was sure they were alone, he thrust his sword through the first Mercenary's throat, silencing him forever. He pulled his sword free and held it tight in his hand, reveling in the frenzy of battle. He was a warrior through and through, born for combat, and now that he was standing over his vanquished foes, he remembered just how much he'd missed it. He grunted at the dead man lying on the ground, a grunt of victory and of satisfaction, and only then did he lower his guard and allow himself a sly grin as he limped over to his old friend.

Before he could say anything, though, Riordann held up his hand and continued scanning the forest. Aiden stopped, squeezing the hilt of his sword anxiously, listening for the sound of any movement nearby. Bastion finally came jogging up the path from the house and when Aiden saw him, he motioned the dog off into the forest. That old hunting dog had just saved his life twice tonight with his ability to sniff out stealthers, and Aiden hoped he'd be able to do it a third time. And sure enough, as soon as the dog started running off into the trees he stopped, sniffed the air, and started barking at something to Aiden's left. He turned, and as soon as he did, he heard the telltale creak of groaning wood, the sound a bow makes when stretched. Aiden immediately brought his shield up as a man appeared from the shadows only an instant before letting fly an arrow. It clipped the upper edge of his shield, right in front of Aiden's heart, and bounced sideways off into the bushes. Before Aiden could even react, a second arrow flew out, only this one came from behind him, flying just over his shoulder, and striking the first bowman directly in the center of his chest.

Aiden ducked to the side and spun around. He expected another attacker but instead he saw Finias standing about a dozen yards behind him, his bow in one hand and a second arrow already in the other. He gave the boy a crooked smile but Finias didn't see it. He was completely focused on the now staggering Scout across the clearing. He coolly nocked that second arrow, pulled back the bowstring, aimed for his target, and fired the arrow into the Scout's chest, sending him flailing backwards into the brush, moments from death.

Aiden let himself breath again, and when he saw Finias glance over at him, he nodded to the boy, glad to see him again despite it all. He turned back to Bastion, who was still nearby, and sent him back off into the trees, to flush out any other nearby stealthers. The dog seemed to understand and he bounded off through the underbrush, sniffing the ground.

"What about the other one?" Riordann asked Finias, breaking the silence. "The Infiltrator?"

"He got away." Finias said darkly. "I lost him."

Riordann nodded glumly and walked over to Aiden, where he began examining his wounds. Aiden immediately turned his head a bit, mostly by instinct, trying to keep his brand out of sight. He wasn't sure if Riordann had already seen it, but if he had he was showing no sign of it now, instead staring inquisitively at Aiden's knife wounds. "It's good to see you again, Aiden." He said, not looking up. "Although I wish it was under better circumstances."

"I should say the same." Aiden said. His battle high was fading now, and the pain and fatigue were coming back quickly. He felt his strength starting to leave his legs, and he decided he needed to sit down before he fell down. So he limped over to a tree stump, with Riordann following, and sat with a painful groan.

"Let me take care of those wounds." Riordann kneeled down next to him. "Which one is the worst?"

Aiden tugged on the bandage around his leg. "This one." He said with a sigh. "I think I'm poisoned, too. There were two Infiltrators in my house. One of them is dead. The other... might be. I don't know."

Riordann turned to Finias. "Can you go in there and check? We might need one alive, so we can question him."

"Hold on." Finias said brusquely. "I'm not doing a bloody thing for either one of you until I'm sure I'm not being lied to."

Riordann looked back at Finias, surprised, as did Aiden.

"You two know each other." Finias looked accusingly at Riordann. "You didn't think to mention that sometime in the last few hours?"

Riordann turned back to Aiden's wounds and started slowly pulling away the bandage, as if nothing untoward had just happened. "I should have, I suppose." He began, "But I didn't feel safe, then. I have a hard time telling anyone anything right now. I think I made that clear."

Finias just stood there, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't know what to believe about you anymore. You were right about the Infiltrators, but you lied about knowing Aiden. You've been acting crazy and paranoid all night but now... now you're about as calm as a corpse." Finias slung his bow back over his shoulder. "What are you? A liar, a mad man, or someone who's just done a really good job at making me look like a fool?"

"I'm a man in trouble, Finias. Just like the two of you. Great trouble. And I assure you that I'm no less scared for my life now than I was ten minutes ago, or two hours ago. These men," he motioned to the bodies around them, "will not be the last ones we have to defend ourselves against."

"What's going on?" Aiden finally asked. He could sense the tension between these two, and finding them out here tonight had been more than just chance. Something greater was at work here.

"The King wants us dead. Haven't you heard?" Finias remarked, snidely.

Riordann looked down at the ground and sighed for a long moment. Finally, he looked up at Aiden, and he saw the brand on his face, but Aiden couldn't tell by his blank expression what he thought of it. For the first time in a while, though, he was truly ashamed of himself, because this was the first time in the two years since his effective banishment that he'd come face to face a former comrade in arms, a man he respected, with the mark of a coward plain on his cheek. He wanted to look away, but he knew that would only make it worse. So he forced himself be strong and to look his friend in the eyes.

"Finias," Riordann began, "would you please check Aiden's house and see if anyone is left alive. We need to learn what we can from these men while there's time. After that, I will tell you everything. I promise you that."

Finias stood his ground for a moment, no doubt bristling at being told what to do, but he relented and walked away. "There's rope on the side of the house there." Aiden said, calling after him, but Finias kept walking and gave no sign that he'd heard him.

Riordann pulled the bandage free from Aiden's leg and examined the wound. "You were stabbed in the chest, too?" He asked, looking up at the wound under Aiden's arm. Aiden nodded, and Riordann began rubbing his hands together. He began chanting something under his breath, then he gave a quick wave of his hand and Aiden saw a flash of light appear in the Friar's palm. Riordann quickly put his hand over Aiden's leg wound, where the light at first spread out over his leg and then quickly retreated back into the wound. Aiden gritted his teeth as he felt the telltale sting of a Friar's healing magic coursing through his leg, repairing the torn flesh through a magic they called Rejuvenation. He knew nothing about how it worked, only that it did, and he was grateful for it tonight. But as wonderful as healing magic could be, it did strange things to a person's body while repairing it, uncomfortable things that some people just never could get used to. But it would keep him alive to fight another day, and that's what Aiden focused on while gritting his teeth.

The effects were apparent in seconds, and Aiden felt his ripped leg muscles pulling, rolling and stretching as they worked to find each other once again. Riordann let his magic do it's work and he moved up to the chest wound, and Aiden steeled himself for the next round of healing. The whole thing was familiar to him, and he remembered the last time Riordann had kept him alive like this. It was around four years ago, while defending Caer Boldiam from an invasion by Midgardian forces. Aiden had taken an arrow to his shoulder, and Riordann had found found him in the chaos of that battle, pulled the arrow out and healed the wound. It had been only a few months after Aiden left the Warhounds, finding it impossible to get along with their commander, Lord Andreas of Devrin. He didn't feel bad about that, since few people were able to suffer that arrogant bastard, but he did miss many of his other comrades in that unit, Riordann included. In fact, his time in the Warhounds had been both incredibly frustrating and completely exhilarating. There were few other groups of soldiers serving the realm of Albion who'd achieved the same level of success as the Warhounds, and the day Aiden had been invited to join them was one of the proudest of his life. He spent only a year with them, and Andreas had pounced on his every little mistake, but he'd learned and experienced more in that year than all the other years of his life combined.

"This one will take care of the poison." Riordann said calmly. "Just close your eyes and relax."

Aiden did as he was told, although it was hard for him to ignore the quesy sensation he always felt from healing magic. His eyes were closed, but he could tell when Riordann cast his next spell, because he felt a wave of cold flow through his body, making him feel numb for an instant as the magic cleansed his blood of the poison coursing through it. It was over as soon as it began, though, and as his body began to warm back up, he immediately felt better, and stronger. The magic had worked, and once his leg and chest muscles finished their incessant tugging and stretching, he would be ready to fight again in minutes.

He heard the door shut behind him, and he glanced back to see Finias walking up the path toward them.

"They're both dead." He said.

"Are you sure about that?" Aiden asked. He'd killed one of the Infiltrators, but the other he'd just knocked in the head a couple times.

"I think the one you left alive poisoned himself. He had a vial in his hand."

"Why in God's name would he poison himself?" Aiden wondered aloud, but he realized the answer as soon as he said it.

"To stay quiet." Finias said, confirming it.

"Or," Riordann began, "because he feared the results of his failure."

"So now what?" Aiden asked.

"Now, you tell us everything." Finias said to Riordann. "Everything." He repeated for emphasis.

Riordann nodded, then slowly started pacing around in the small clearing. "I'll start at the beginning, then."

Finias leaned against a nearby birch tree, staring intently at Riordann.

"About three months ago, we were part of a patrol group scouting Agramon. We'd heard that Hibs were out in force there, no doubt preparing for an attack. We found them, but we were forced to fall back, and we got cut off before escaping the island so we had to take refuge down in the Labyrinth. But some of the Hibs followed us down."

Aiden knew of the Labyrinth but he'd never been inside. The Albion, Midgard and Hibernian frontiers all met each other at the island of Agramon, a desolate no-man's land where people only ventured out in force. The Labyrinth was a massive maze of tunnels underneath the frontiers that no one knew about until an earthquake a few years back opened up several entrances to it on Agramon. It had been a revelatory event, not only because of the discovery of these tunnels, but also because it had revealed the existence of the different clans of Minotaurs who still lived down there, and set off a frenzy of alliance-making between the three realms and some of the warring Minotaur clans. To this day, that process was still happening, with no end in sight.

"We went deep into the Labyrinth as those Hibernians chased us, avoiding them, as well as the Minotaur clansmen down there who hated us. Finally, we ran into a dead end, and had no choice but to turn around and fight. And so we did. And against numbers greater than our own, we held our ground. Until..." He paused, then cleared his throat. "You see, the Labyrinth is unstable. There are constant tremors down there, and our fighting set one off. A bad one. Parts of the walls started collapsing around us. And just as things started to turn bad for us, Tholstan," Riordann glanced over at Aiden as he said the name, and Aiden nodded back, remembering his fellow Armsman fondly "found a crack in the wall that was large enough for us to escape through. So we retreated through the crack, and found ourselves in a tunnel that sloped dangerously down into the depths of the world. Under normal circumstances we'd have thought twice about going down there, but we didn't have a choice this time. Another tremor came, threatening to crash the entire tunnel down around us, so we went down, for a long time we went down, and when we finally came to the end we found ourselves in a place so deep below the earth that even those in the Labyrinth don't know about it."

Riordann paused for a long moment, looking down at the ground absently. The silence began to stretch out, and Aiden noticed that Riordann's hand was shaking slightly.

"And?" Finias asked, breaking the silence.

"We were in a large tunnel, with rough-cut walls that looked... old. You see, the Labyrinth itself is really just an underground city. The walls are carved, and there are decorations, tiled runes, pictures, statues. The tunnels are crafted like they were meant for the taurs to live within them. But this place wasn't like that. It didn't feel like part of the Labyrinth at all. This place was primal, and dark, like it was connected to the bowels of the world. The air itself was... heavy with some terrible magic. It felt like we were walking amongst the souls of the dead down there."

Riordann's hand made a flittering gesture while he talked, which caught Aiden off-guard. He'd never seen the old Friar like this. It was as if he were reliving the moment in his mind as he spoke, and it felt unnatural to see him not in control. Riordann had always been unflappable. No matter how desperate the battle or the stakes, Riordann was the one to keep everyone else calm. Now, Aiden was watching a man he'd known as the rock of the warhounds seemingly lose his cool, and perhaps his mind. It was unsettling to say the least.

"There were some rooms along the side of the tunnel," he continued, glancing over at Finias for a moment, "and that's where we found the treasure. There were small mounds of gold and jewels packed into the corners of the rooms, swept over there like trash. There were also dead bodies in there, most had been there for years, but there were some who couldn't have been dead more than a few months. We found rotted food, cases of ale and wine, little charms and mementos, like something you would carry around to remember your family or someone you loved."

"I remember examing one of the bodies, though, trying to figure out how long it had been down there, when we were attacked. There were only a few torches lit down there, so it was dark and confusing, but the first thing I saw down there was a Firbolg. I naturally thought those same Hibs had caught up to us. But then I saw a Troll next to him. Everyone started yelling that Mids were here now, too, and we were fighting another group as well, but I realized that they weren't fighting each other. They were fighting together, against us. That, in itself, was strange, but then I saw Britons, Avalonians and Half-Ogres amongst those ranks. And when I saw that, when I saw our own countrymen fighting with them..." he shook his head and gave a short laugh.

"We managed to move the fight back out into the main tunnel, thinking that our only option was to escape back the way we came, but when we got out into the open, we saw three Minotaurs in the back lines. They weren't fighters, though. They were casters, wearing dark red robes, and they were staying back, chanting in some old tongue I've never heard before. I thought they might be working on some kind of focus spell, like the kind a Cabalist would use, but I couldn't see yet what effect it was having."

"And then suddenly one of them let out a roar, and these people, these fourth realmers as I call them, they backed away. We thought that was our opening, our chance to escape, so we started falling back." He paused again for a moment, remembering. "Some of us started falling back."

"I remember looking behind us as we ran, and I saw two of our own, Leesin and Henry, just standing there, like they'd forgotten where they were. I stopped to go back, to get them, and that's when I saw that those Minotaurs were chanting again, and staring right at those two. And I knew - at that moment I knew they were doing something to them. I just didn't know what it was yet."

"And then it started happening to the others. One by one I saw men I'd fought alongside for years just drop to their knees. Or stare at nothing. It was like their souls had been pierced by this magic, and it was..." He trailed off again, and Aiden thought he almost saw a smile coming to the old Friar's face before he blinked and started talking again. "I grabbed one of them, a man named Hylin, and he just looked at me like he'd never seen me before. I thought he'd been dazed somehow, that maybe the magic was disorienting them, so I grabbed his arm and tried to drag him back with us, but he pulled away from me. And then he turned his sword on me. Whatever magic these minotaurs were using, they'd turned our own people on us in moments, making them think we were the enemy."

"I don't remember much detail after that. I was hit by something, and everything went black. I only remember waking up back in that passageway, the long sloping one, with Andreas and Tholstan dragging me along behind them. We'd escaped in the confusion somehow, just the three of us. No one

else made it out. We spent a day trying to navigate those tunnels and escape the Labyrinth without being seen. And then it took another day after that to get back to Camelot, where we reported what we found to the King's Chamberlain, and some of his councilors. We spent hours with them, describing everything we saw down there in as much detail as we could remember. And later that night, we were sent to an Inn in town." He glanced over at Finias. "And that's where the Infiltrators captured me, and I spent the next three months in a dungeon under the city."

"You were imprisoned?" Aiden asked. "What for?"

Riordann frowned. "The King and his men want to keep this a secret, so they can take advantage of it before everyone else finds out about it. And in the meantime, people will be hurt, killed, or captured by these things. All because of greed. Someone is down there, and they are dabbling in very

dark magic, and creating an army to protect them. The King either knows about this, and he's letting people die because of his greed, or he doesn't know and it's his ignorance letting this happen. You two found that Thane outside Humberton. That means these fourth realmers are starting to spread out into the world. I don't know why, but we need to find out, and we need to stop it, because there's no one else in this realm that we can depend on anymore."

Aiden's next question would have been to ask what they needed to do now, but he suspected he already knew Riordann's plan. "You want to go back to the Labyrinth?"

"I have to, Aiden. I need to find out what happened to my friends down there. Our friends. I need to save them."

"But what about Tholstan? And Andreas? They could still be down in that dungeon."

Riordann let out a long, heavy sigh. "They weren't in that dungeon. I don't know where they are, but I suspect that Andreas isn't spending his time in shackles right now."

"What do you mean?"

"The King's men need someone to show them how to get back to where we were. Andreas is a shrewd man, Aiden. If he sensed that things were about to go bad, he'd the first to ensure his survival."

Aiden couldn't believe it. He knew Andreas was a bastard, and a glory hound, but even he had some sense of honor, especially to his men. The warhounds were successful because Andreas had been smart in his recruiting, and even if his personality was ice cold, he was loyal to those he trusted, like Riordann, who'd been with the Warhounds since the beginning. Aiden may have hated the man, but he could at least admit to himself that there was no way Andreas would betray Riordann. At least not

willingly.

"Then we better get moving." Finias said, and both men turned to look at him, suprised. Aiden especially, who didn't expect the boy to be so easily talked into something as dangerous as Riordann was suggesting. But Finias just shrugged back at them. "We either go out there and take our chances,

or we stay here and hide for the rest of our lives." Finias looked at Aiden. "I know some of us are good at that. But I'm not. I want to fight."

"You think I don't?" Aiden replied, harshly.

"I know this is sudden, but I came to you, Aiden, because I knew you would always do what's right." Riordann said. "I don't know what's happened to you lately, and I'm sorry I wasn't around to- to help, but I do know you would never do anything to hurt or abandon your friends."

Aiden looked down at the ground, shook his head and just laughed.

"After everything that's happened tonight, you think I'm just going to sit around here and wait for more of them to show up?" He nodded toward one of the Mercenaries lying lifeless on the ground nearby. "No. Something more important than we realize is happening here. God brought us together, my friend, and He did it for a reason. And I, for one, can't wait to see what happens next."

**Chapter 9**

I could fix that for you."

Those were the words that Riordann spoke to him yesterday. The words that still haunted him today.

Aiden stood ill at east just outside Snowdonia Fortress, one of the two great keeps in the northern reaches of the Albion countryside. Snowdonia and Castle Sauvage, far to the east, were the only defenses not natural that stood between the people of Albion and the savage and lawless frontier, where the armies of the three realms fought their vicious battles. These two border keeps were staging areas for Albion's armies, where those who fought for the realm - Armsmen, Paladins, Wizards, Clerics, Friars, Theurgists and more - made their last preparations before heading off to battle against the armies of Midgard and Hibernia. They were also the last defense against those marauding armies, for if their enemies breached one of the border keeps, they could roam deep into the lands of Albion, ravaging its people with almost no one to stand before them.

He was at the edge of the large market area just south of the main gates, on the Albion side of the walls, waiting nervously before his first foray into the frontier in years. He was leaning on a wooden support pole holding up one corner of a wide woolen canopy hanging off the side of a large pavilion, trying not to be noticed, which was easy enough in this crowd. The market was made up of merchants and vendors from all over the land, looking to sell their wares to the hundreds, sometimes thousands, of soldiers that passed through the fortress every day. All about the sloping, grassy field were large multi-colored cloth tarps and tents stretched out on poles, with dozens upon dozens of men, women and children hawking food, clothing, specialized weapons and arrows, mementos, armor-adornments, charms, and whatever else they thought they could trade or sell. The whole market area stood in the shadow of the great fortress walls, easily as tall as ten men, thicker than four or five standing abreast, and made from a magically endowed dark-gray granite that some claimed was harder than arcanium, the metal used in the most expensive weapons and armor in the world.

Aiden rubbed his eyes, trying to look casual even though he felt anything but relaxed. He'd spent a day and a half traveling north from his home in the Black Mountains to Snowdonia, and the excitement he'd endured in the last two days was taking it's toll. He was tired, nervous and irritable after waiting around nearly half an hour for Riordann to purchase some supplies for their trip. About a dozen large wool and cloth blankets were hanging from a rope tied across one side of the pavilion, and Aiden had positioned himself so that they blocked him from the view of most of the market area while he waited. He was wearing his familiar red robe, the hood up over his head, and hanging just enough to cover part of his brand for anyone who happened by. He was wearing his old armor, as battered as it was, and it felt comfortable and familiar on his large frame. His shield was strapped to his back, his sheathed sword was hanging from his belt and he'd even brought the goblin spear along with him, thinking it was good luck given how often he'd had to use it lately. Bastion sat quietly at his feet, watching the crowd lazily and every so often gnawing the fleas on his haunches. Finias had been waiting with him but he'd grown tired of standing around and wandered off some time ago, leaving Aiden alone with his thoughts.

"I can fix that for you." Riordann had told him that while walking north along the road yesterday through the Black Mountains. He was referring to Aiden's scar, which he hadn't mentioned up to that point.

The statement caught him off guard, and Aiden wasn't sure how to answer. Any healer could use healing magic to remove a scar - up to a point - and Aiden knew this. But he also knew that anyone who tried such a thing would end up banished themselves. He could have gone to a healer out amongst the homesteaders, or some of the more unsavory types that were part of the Camelot underground. They would have done it for a price. But they were unreliable, Aiden didn't have the money anyway, and going to someone like that, even in secret, would have completely shattered Aiden's already fragile sense of honor and respect.

"No." He'd told him. "It's nothing."

"Trying to be noble?"

"No. I just - I just don't want the trouble."

"It would take me all of five minutes, Aiden."

"You'd ruin your reputation." Aiden replied hastily.

"My reputation?" Riordann nearly laughed. "I just escaped from a dungeon. I'm being hunted by assassins. Somehow, I think fixing your brand would go unnoticed amongst all the rest of my problems."

Aiden desperately wanted to take Riordann up on his offer. He was ready to drop his pack, his weapons and shield, and just sit on the ground like an anxious little kid while the Friar used his talents to make his humiliation go away once and for all. But he knew better. Removing the scar wouldn't remove the last two years of his life. He wanted things set right, and this just didn't feel like the way to do that.

"Maybe later." Aiden said, though he didn't really mean it. "When this is over... maybe then."

Riordann nodded. "Agreed."

He'd agonized over that decision ever since, and there were several times throughout the day he'd almost pulled Riordann aside to do it. Just to get it over with so he didn't have to keep thinking about it. But something held him back. At first he thought it might be self-respect, but he didn't entirely believe that. It felt more complicated than that. Maybe he was afraid of what would happen next, how he would face the people he once knew, and that seemed even more daunting than this journey to the Labyrinth. Ultimately, though, the reason he'd settled on yesterday, and still felt sure about today, was that he hadn't earned it. He didn't want to get rid of the brand just so he could run away and start over in some new land across the sea. No, he wanted to go back to his old life. He wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to fight for his realm, and he couldn't do that unless he earned the right to have that brand removed. Hopefully, this little journey was the beginning of just that.

Since arriving here at Snowdonia, though, he'd done his best to keep his mind off his own troubles. The frontier was a terribly harsh place, where distraction or introspection would get you killed. So set about occupying his mind by remembering all of the little things he didn't realize he'd forgotten about since his last time here. Sights and sounds he'd taken for granted before, but now he drank them in like a parched man who's stumbled upon a stream. The sound of heavy footsteps and metal clanging as armored soldiers marched about in the regal red and blue livery of Albion. The screeching of sword and axe blades being sharpened on a pedal-spun grindstone. The smell of new leather and the oils that tanners used to soften it. In the past all of this had just been in the background for him, but not today. Today he wanted to experience it all. He was happy to be here, and anxious to be heading out into the frontier, where he'd always felt like he made a difference. He wanted to remember as much of this as he could, and enjoy it in case he had it all taken from him again. Most of all, though, he was desperate to get back to one of the few places he truly felt comfortable, and away from the worries that had plagued him up until now.

"I know you normally wouldn't do it, but we're ready."

Aiden heard a woman's voice nearby and he turned to see who was talking. He found her only a few yards away, a short, thin little waif, barely out of her mid-teens, with long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail by several golden clasps. Her face was round, and her eyes were deep set and blue. She was pretty, and she carried herself like a woman much older than she appeared. She wore the dark blue robes of a Theurgist, the Albion wizards who specialized in mastery of the elements, but Aiden suspected that she'd stolen that robe from her mother, because she was far too young for anyone to believe that she'd mastered any of the magical arts. She was walking in lockstep with an Albion Sergeant, slightly older than Aiden, fully armored in worn and dented plate mail, and with a look on his face that suggested he'd already had enough of this girl. Following both of them was a young man, roughly the same age as her, wearing various pieces of Paladin plate armor that looked fancy enough, but had never seen a single day of battle. The polish was too perfect.

The sergeant just shook his head and waved her off gruffly. "Not today, girl. You'll have to find someone else."

"But we're ready!" She exclaimed, sounding a little too much like a child. She must have realized that because she quickly regained her composure. "I promise you we are."

The sergeant stopped and turned to her, towering over her small frame. "I already have a bunch of kids to take care of out in the frontier. I don't need two more. 'Specially not ones who look like they should be playing dolls." He punched the boy right in the center of his plate hauberk, not too hard, but it sent the would-be Paladin stumbling back a step with a look of surprise on his face. The sergeant just shook his head again and walked off, while the girl looked at her companion with embarrassment clear on her face.

Aiden turned away to hide his smile. That conversation had been a familiar one for him. Children pretending to be soldiers, coming to Snowdonia and Sauvage intent on proving themselves in the realm wars without having any idea of the horrors that waited beyond those walls. It was all glory and adventure to them, but to the hardened veterans, it was something else entirely. If they were smart, those two would grow tired of their begging and go home, where it was safe, before someone made the mistake of taking them out to their deaths.

Riordann arrived several minutes later, to Aiden's relief, and they looked through the provisions he'd purchased. He somehow managed to wrangle together a small pouch of silver during his time in Camelot, and he'd just spent all of it on a little bit of dried food, water skins and blankets. It was a meager collection of supplies, but it would be enough to get by for a few days. Hopefully, they would be able to scavenge more from any fallen foes, which was how many good soldiers made a comfortable living.

"Our best chance of survival is to find a fight." Riordann chuckled. "I always loved that irony."

"We'll be fine." Aiden assured him. "All we need to do is stay behind the mile gates and get to the docks without being too obvious. Once we're on the ferry, we'll be safe most of the way."

"That we will."

"I know I haven't been out there lately, but I'm guessing things have changed that much in the last two years." Aiden said.

Riordann shook his head. "No. Nothing's changed. That's the unfortunate part. Getting to Agramon will be tough for us."

"Agramon will be dangerous." Aiden agreed. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Finias finally approach. He was glad to see the young Scout back so that they could finally get moving, but his relief was quickly tempered by the fact that the young man and woman he'd seen earlier were now following him.

"What are they doing here?" He asked carefully, suddenly fearing the worst.

"They're coming with us." Finias said.

"No, they're not."

Finias was taken aback. "Yeah, they are. I invited them."

"You invited them?" Aiden didn't want to make a scene, but he could feel his temper rising. "To what? To join us on a death march into the Labyrinth? They're children!"

Finias smiled back at him, bemused. "How old do you think I am?" He asked, and Aiden quickly realized his mistake. Finias was barely older than they were, he just carried himself in a way that made him seem more aware of the world. He seemed more adult than his age should allow, and Aiden had completely forgotten about that. "Besides, they want to help. They know the risks, so why not bring them? Five is still better than three, right?"

Aiden clenched his fist and grunted. He didn't feel like arguing about it anyway. "Fine. Bring them. But their lives are in your hands." He turned to the other two, who seemed reluctant to say or do anything that would upset anyone more than they already were. "And you two. What are your names?"

"I'm Katarina." The girl said. "Kat." She added.

"Malcolm." The boy said quietly. "Her brother."

"Kat and Malcolm." Aiden said, nodding. "I don't know what Finias told you, but this is no game. Once we're on the other side of those walls," he pointed, "you two will say nothing, and do nothing, unless I or Riordann tell you. We're not getting killed because you two don't know what to do out there."

Their faces blanched but Aiden didn't care. Better to be harsh with them now and make sure they knew what they were getting into, than to regret doing it after they died from making a stupid mistake. He also hoped he could scare them into backing out, but Malcolm only nodded, and Kat quickly followed suit.

Aiden just shook his head at Finias and then walked off, followed by Riordann, who gave them all a cautious smile. Finias scowled. "I'm not the one bringing a dog into the frontier."

Aiden ignored the comment and continued on toward the south gates, which were open. He motioned Riordann forward, wanting him to lead them through the fortress so fewer eyes would be on him and the brand he was trying to cover up. And even though the Friar seemed reluctant, he stepped up ahead of the group as they crossed through the gates and into the main courtyard. This part of the fortress was just an open space between the north wall, which was the first line of defense, and the south wall, which was the second line. Catwalks circled the interior of the walls, allowing defenders to see over the top, and two giant wooden staircases stood at the east and west edges, where the walls were built right into the surrounding rock. There was minimal activity today, with some men congregated near the weapon storehouses in the corner, and a small group of robed casters, men and women, chatting near a tailor who was repairing the tears in someone's robe. What Aiden was looking for, though, was about twenty paces to his left as he entered the courtyard - a giant rune-inscribed stone, with two small pillars standing on either side. The Binding Stone.

Aiden tapped Riordann's shoulder to get his attention, and then motioned to his left. Riordann nodded and let Aiden lead everyone to the corner of the courtyard to stand in front of the stone, which stood as tall as he did, and was almost as wide at its base. The circular rune carved into it's front glowed with a faint bluish hue, and two Clerics of the Church of Albion stood nearby, watching Aiden and his companions as they approached. Aiden went to the stone first, keeping his head down in only partially feigned reverence, and he placed his hand on the stone. When he did, one of the Clerics - an older man with a long grey beard and a disinterested expression on his face - stepped forward to place his hand on Aiden's. The Cleric chanted something under his breath and the blue glow grew bright for a moment, then faded.

"For the glory of Albion, my son. Praise be to God." The Cleric said in a monotone voice as he pulled his hand away.

"Praise be to God." Aiden repeated, and stepped away as Riordann came forward to repeat the process.

The Binding Stone was a powerful magical item used to temporarily capture part of a person's soul. The frontier was a dangerous place, and dozens of men and women died out there every day. But by releasing a soul fragment to the Stone before heading out into the frontier, you were giving yourself a chance for the Clerics of the Church to restore you to life, provided your body was brought back to the stone within a reasonable time - usually within a day - and that it wasn't damaged beyond the care of healing magic. An unspoken agreement existed between the three realms that once someone was dead, their bodies were left untouched so that their realm mates could have every opportunity to revive them. No one wanted to be the first realm to advocate wholesale mutilation, and thus have the same be done to them. But of course, there were always certain factions who took pleasure in destroying their opponents remains, even though realm leaders would publicly claim they were outcasts from normal military functions.

But there was a catch to the Binding Stone. The process of releasing and regaining a portion of your soul - dying and being brought back to life - was incredibly taxing, and most people could only handle a 'Revival' two or three times before they started losing their memories, having seizures, or going completely insane. Because of this, most people were forcibly retired from any kind of active combat after their third Revival, although there were always a few who managed to sneak through until they reached five or six. Aiden himself had only been Revived once, after dying during a failed attack on Midgard. It was a terribly traumatic experience. But he'd known a number of soldiers who had been Revived four or five times during their time in the frontiers, and none of them was the same person they'd been when he first met them.

Once the other four touched the Stone - Finias was noticeably hesitant to do so for some reason, though Aiden didn't ask why - he let Riordann lead them across the courtyard toward the outer gates. He tried to push down the excitement as they approached the giant iron portcullis that stood between them and the entrance to the frontier, where all his best years had been. Memories flashed before him of walking through that gateway into a land where only your weapon, your shield, and your wits kept you alive. He'd been part of countless battles out there, defending keeps and outposts, destroying towers, roaming the countryside with his comrades, claiming narrow victories and suffering crushing defeats. Even though some days had been better than others, in the grand scheme of things every moment out there had been worth it because Aiden knew he had been lucky. Not everyone was able to find their true calling in life, and he'd found it - and lived it - for a decade. Now he was only moments away from going back, and he wanted to relish every moment before it was taken from him again.

Riordann nodded to the guards manning the gate, and one of them signaled to two more men who were in charge of operating the winch that raised and lowered the portcullis. They begin turning the winch and the portcullis slowly creaked upward, as did Aiden's excitement. When they had enough room to walk under the metal grate, they didn't wait any longer and just walked on through and then down the short stone hallway that led through the open outer gate. Once they passed through the opening and out onto the small sloping hill that led down and away from the massive walls, Aiden moved up next to Riordann, putting his hand on the old Friar's arm to let him know that they needed to stop. Riordann obliged, watching Aiden as the Armsman stood and stared at the vast rolling hills and valleys of Snowdonia before him. For a moment, a brief moment, Aiden forgot everything that was troubling him. He didn't see the several dozen Albion soldiers patrolling the grounds around him, or the powerful Wizards, Sorcerers and archers manning the walls above him. All he saw was his home.

And that's when he knew for sure that he'd made the right decision. He needed to lose his coward's brand with a clear conscience, and he'd never been more sure that this journey, this fateful trip to the Labyrinth, or wherever it was he would end up, was a test to earn back his honor and reputation. Riordann meant well with his offer, but it was a temptation, an easy way out for Aiden, and that's not what God had intended for him. God had greater plans for him, and right at this moment Aiden had never felt more sure about his future, and everything that would come with it. He would pass his test, he would reclaim his honor, and he would once again lead the armies of Albion to victory, as he was born to do. And it all began out here.

"Well," he said, proudly surveying the frontier before him, "I hope you're all ready. Because everything you know is about to change."

**Chapter 10**

Finias crouched over the Infiltrator lying on the floor of Aiden's shack, holding his hand over the man's mouth to see if he was breathing. He was pretty sure this one was dead, but he'd learned from an early age to be thorough when dealing with assassins, because they made their living by convincing people to lower their guard. He was frustrated and angry about everything that had happened tonight - killing the Thane, losing his reward, dealing with Riordann's fickle emotions - but he couldn't let that distract him right now. So he kept his emotions pushed down while going through all the tests he'd been taught to do - feeling for a heartbeat, even a slow one, checking for breathing, even jabbing a knife point into the palm of the hand. This guy had passed all of those tests, which meant he was either really dead, or really good at playing dead.

He moved to the other body lying motionless on the floor, and reached out to check his breathing as well. As soon as his hand touched the man's nose, though, the Infiltrator jerked away, and immediately reached for something on his belt. Finias instantly grabbed the man's wrist with his right hand, snatched a dagger from his belt with his left, and held it to his throat.

"Don't move." He whispered. The man was still, but that meant nothing. Finias knew he was only biding his time until he could strike, like any good assassin. He glanced over at the Infiltrator's left hand, expecting to see the dim outline of a dagger, but instead, a sliver of moonlight shone through the cracks of the roof and illuminated a small glass vial. Poison, Finias thought. He'd been reaching for a way to end his own life, so he couldn't be questioned. Because he'd failed.

At first Finias was tempted to let the man take his poison and die. It would be one less Infiltrator to worry about. But then he realized that this was his chance to take back control, and to finally find out something that the others didn't know.

"You want to die, huh?" He whispered. "Fine. I'm going make a deal with you. I'll ask you one question, and if you answer it for me, I'll let you take your poison and die honorably." Finias felt the man's muscles tighten in his grip, no doubt expecting some kind of trick. "Or, we can fight. And if we fight, I'll break that vial and then I'll gut you with this knife. My friends outside will hear the noise, come in here, and tie you up. You'll be tortured for a while until we get our information. Either way, I get what I want. The only question is, do you get what you want?"

Neither of them moved for a long moment. Finias thought the Infiltrator might be mulling the offer over in his mind, deciding if it was better to fight and die, or to take his own life. So he decided to put his offer in perspective.

"Remember, if you're found with that poison on your lips, your bosses will know you died without revealing anything. If you die with rope burns on your wrist, they'll have to assume otherwise."

Another long moment passed, and Finias was about to give up when the Infiltrator's body finally relaxed, and he nodded his consent.

"Smart man." He said, not relaxing his own grip - he was still dealing with an assassin after all. "Now who sent you? And I want names."

"I don't know who sent us," he replied in a hoarse voice, "only who hired us."

"Who, then?"

"Caelis."

"Caelis?" Finias repeated, making sure he'd heard right. "'Cutter' Caelis? He hired you?" Finias could feel his chest tightening uncomfortably. Caelis was one of Albion's most feared assassins, both for his prowess, and for the fact that his sanity was questionable. His nickname was pretty self-explanatory, and it had inspired an untold number of partially true stories about what he did to his victims. Finias had met the man once as a child and even then he'd known immediately just how dangerous he was. But even with his savage reputation, it wasn't Caelis he feared. "Does that mean... do you know who I am?" He asked breathlessly, finally realizing the magnitude of what he was involved in.

The Infiltrator just smiled back at him. "That's more than one question, Finias."

Finias let his arm hang over the front side of the ferry's hull, feeling the water spray up as the small waves crested into the bow. His mind was full of troubling thoughts, so much so that he'd barely slept the last two nights, but being out here on the river seemed to calm him. He couldn't explain why, but he loved the water, especially the open sea. He'd spent very little time near it growing up, but he felt like it called to him whenever he was around it, like he was part of a larger world that he could get lost in. When he first left home, he thought about getting a job on a trade ship and sailing across the sea, somewhere away from the three realms and their wars. He could leave everything behind if he had ever had the guts to do so, and escape to start his life over. He'd never done it, though. At first he figured he was just too scared, but that was only part of the reason. As much as he hated admitting it, Albion was his home, and he bristled at the notion of leaving before he'd proven his worth to everyone who doubted him. Of course, the last two days had left him wishing he'd left when he had the chance.

After leaving the border keep, they'd traveled northwest to the Lower Prolix River and to the docks west of Caer Hurbury, where they were able to secure a ferry to the north. They traveled most of the way to Hurbury behind the milegate, the giant wall that spanned the entire region of Snowdonia, protecting the southern half of the region from the rest of the frontier. That had kept them safe from small roving bands of Midgardians and Hibernians who may have penetrated deep into the south. More importantly, though, the mile gates protected Abion's great Relics, which were housed in the southernmost parts of the frontier. The Relics were powerful magical artifacts, passed down from their ancestors, and whose origins were lost to time. The scholars said that the Relics were what gave the soldiers of Albion their strength and the casters their will, but who really knew if that was true. The scholars also said that the Relics had to be kept in the frontier, and Finias had always wondered why they'd be kept where they could be lost to enemy armies – which had happened – but people smarter than him had said it must be done. Finias didn't know why exactly, but he didn't care, either. He left the defense of Relics to people like Riordann and Aiden, people who were more invested those sorts of endeavors.

The ferry was slowly drifting north down the river from the Hurbury docks to Caer Benowyc with Finias and four other passengers. Aiden and Riordann were with him, along with their two new companions, Katarina the Thuergist and Malcolm the Paladin. Bastion was sitting on the floorboards at Aiden's feet, his tongue hanging lazily out of his mouth. Once at Beno they would disembark and make their way over land to the bridge that would take them to Agramon, and the entrance to the Labyrinth. They'd passed Caer Boldiam some time ago, which marked the halfway point of their journey, and Riordann had announced that they would be reaching Benowyc within the hour. While passing Boldiam, the ferryman had steered them close to the docks situated there so he could ask the dockmaster if the waters downriver were safe. As the ferry drifted by, they'd shouted their news back and forth to each other and everyone on the ferry learned that Midgard forces were attacking Renaris, and most of the frontier defenses were headed there. As far as the dockmaster knew, Benowyc was quiet, which left them all somewhat at ease, although Aiden was quick to remind them that Benowyc rarely stayed quiet.

Finias had spent the last hour trying to occupy himself by watching the shore and surveying in his mind all the spots with good cover for a Scout. They were currently passing by a long stretch of cedar trees on the east shoreline, and he wondered how many other archers had hidden there to take shots at ferries as they moved back and forth along the river. He swore he'd heard someone loose an arrow shortly after they left the docks at Hurbury, but he never saw the arrow or heard it land. The short wooden barricades on each side of the ferry would block a direct shot, and he doubted there were many archers out here with the skill to drop an arrow on them from above, but he'd still spent much of the trip watching for good hiding spots. Partly for his own edification, and partly because he was worried about who might be following them.

Caelis and his small army of hired goons would be a problem for them. Caelis was vicious, cruel and unpredictable, which is why he'd been so effective for so long, and Finias could only imagine that he'd hire assassins in his own image. But he wasn't clever. He was impetuous and rash, which made him hard to deal with, and an ineffective leader. Caelis was a soldier, and even though most of the commanders in Albion found him impossible to control, there was one man Cutter Caelis would listen to, one man he respected enough to follow. Varusinian Vardakin. Varus the Dragon. One of the most feared and reviled Infiltrators in the history of Albion... and Finias' own father.

Varus was a cunning and vile man, who liked to study his opponents. He enjoyed finding their weak spots, so he could strike fast and hard, giving them no chance to defend themselves. And unfortunately for his targets, those weaknesses could be found in more than just armor. More than likely it would include friends or family, emotional weaknesses, as he called it. Varus was not above destroying everything his victims held dear. In fact, Finias was sure he delighted in it. Varus was also a terrible father, driving his three sons to follow in his path, whether they wanted to or not. He would berate them, belittle them, turn them against each other, all in an attempt to hone their instincts and skills. One of Finias' brothers had already died trying to appease their madman of a father, and Finias wasn't about to be the second. So he left, and he hoped to never have to see that man again. But that all changed two nights ago. Caelis may have hired these men, he may have handed them the money, but Finias was positive that the Caelis was working under a plan, a plan that came from Varus.

"They're under a spell?" Kat asked, shaking Finias out of his thoughts. She was responding to Riordann's long monologue explaining why they were going to the Labyrinth, but it wasn't just her question that got his attention. He was attracted to her voice, which had a sing-songy quality to it that she kept trying to hide. It immediately pegged her as being raised in a noble house, though why she would hide that was beyond him. But he liked her voice. He liked hearing her talk. He found her to be especially pretty, though he hadn't quite decided what he thought of her assertiveness, even though that's what drew him to her earlier. He'd seen her pleading her case in Snowdonia, she was about his age, she was easy to look at, and he really did want to help her. He certainly knew what it was like to want to be someone and have everyone doubt you. Or force you down another path.

"Yes." Riordann replied calmly. "And because of that spell, they think we're their enemies. And they will try to kill us because of it."

"Our own realmmates?" She said with disbelief, still trying to grasp everything she'd been told. At Snowdonia, Finias had only mentioned to them that they were undertaking a mission in the Labyrinth. He hadn't felt the need to explain much more than that because they'd been so eager to go, Kat especially, which technically made it her fault for not bothering to find out just what she was agreeing to.

"Surely we can't fight our own people?" Malcolm asked, in what was probably the second time Finias had heard him say anything. His voice was deep and regal, another clue to noble upbringing. In fact, he hadn't noticed before, but he sensed the hint of an accent, one that placed his youth in Cornwall, perhaps. Is that where they'd grown up?

"You can if they start fighting you." Aiden said, watching the shoreline. Like Finias, he'd only been half paying attention to the story.

"But if they can't control it, then wouldn't you be murdering them?" Kat asked, although it was less a question and more an accusation.

"You'd rather they murder us?" Aiden quipped. Kat turned to her brother in frustration, but all he could muster in return was the same worried look he'd had on his face ever since leaving Snowdonia.

The talk of murder made Finias uncomfortable, and it reminded him of yet another topic he'd been trying to avoid thinking about. Along with everything else on his mind today, he'd been ruminating about his fight with the Thane near that goblin village. He could still see himself firing two arrows into that Thane, killing him almost instantly. He could see the Thane's body falling to the ground, lifeless. He remembered carrying that body to Camelot, and being unable to look anywhere but at the two wounds in the Norseman's neck and head. He'd never killed anyone before that moment, despite years of prodding from his father, and he feared what would become of him if it ever happened. Now it had, and he didn't feel different, but still he worried. He worried, because those images in his mind were fading. He expected to have that moment ingrained in him forever, but he was already having trouble remembering all of the details. Finias had spent every moment since then expecting to be sick, to be ashamed, hoping for any kind of physical response as retribution for that act. But he felt nothing. No remorse, at least none that he didn't try to fabricate himself. No guilt. Nothing. And that scared him more than anything else.

"I know it's strange," Riordann said, "but we're going there to help them. And we'll do what we can to avoid them. But-but you must be ready to do your part."

"I don't know..." Katarina's voice trailed off, but no one else on the ferry cared to fill the silence, and they continued north with little discussion. Finias thought he would be glad to have quiet, but he soon wished people would start talking again, about anything, just to get his mind on something, anything else. He was tired of worrying, tired of feeling angry, and most of all he was tired of running.

It was only about twenty minutes later when they saw the Benowyc docks ahead of them, on the west side of the river. As the ferryman began to steer the ferry closer to the left bank, Riordann explained the dangers that lie ahead once they disembarked. Caer Benowyc was on the east side of the river, on a small island that split the river, so they would have to move north from the docks across a dangerously open stretch of riverbank before they could cross the bridge to get to the keep. A small hill dotted with clumps of trees overlooked the river bank, where enemies could be lying in wait, so the run to Benowyc would be dangerous. Archers from Hibernia and Midgard liked to hide in those trees and look for stragglers moving back and forth between the docks and the bridge, and that's exactly what a small, ill-equipped group of five was out in the frontier - stragglers.

"Don't dawdle out here." That was Aiden's only advice.

The ferry finally reached the dock where a small contingent of about five soldiers stood guard. They'd be useless in a big fight, but they served to keep smaller groups away in most cases. The ferryman threw a rope to the dockmaster, who caught it and used it to pull the ferry up alongside the near edge of the dock. Aiden stepped up first while holding Bastion under one arm, followed by Riordann, and Finias noticed that both men kept a watchful eye on that hill to the west. Kat went up next, followed by Malcolm, and Finias reluctantly climbed up last, almost immediately missing the gentle rocking of the waves.

"How are things today?" Riordann asked the dockmaster, a young Briton wearing woefully inadequate leather armor.

"Been quiet out here." He replied cautiously. Riordann nodded, then followed Aiden, who had already stepped off the dock and onto the grassy riverbank. They both turned to Finias, Kat and Malcolm, who hurried to follow, then started walking - quickly - toward the bridge that was around four hundred paces ahead of them.

They were just shy of halfway there when Kat spoke. "I think that maybe when we reach Caer Benowyc," she began, slowly, "we can just try to help with the defense there. I appreciate the trouble you've all gone to today, and I know not everyone would have done the same. But I'm not sure my brother and I should be involved in all of this."

Finias knew exactly what she was feeling. She was in over her head and she wanted to get away.

"I think you would be doing more for your realm by stopping what's down there, than simply defending the walls of Caer Benowyc from another attack." Riordann said.

Kat just looked at the ground. "I'm sorry."

"So you're running away." Finias said. "Like children."

"What?" Kat seemed offended by the notion.

"You wanted to prove yourself, right? To show you two could do this? Well, here you go." Finias held his arms out, motioning to the frontier that surrounded them. "You don't always get to pick your fights, right Aiden?"

Aiden glanced back at him curiously when he said that, but he just nodded and kept walking, ignoring the conversation behind him. "Right."

"Well this is your chance. It may not be the one you wanted, or hoped for, but this is it. What we're doing is important, and we're going to need help. But what we don't need is two children who run away at the first sign of trouble."

Kat's mouth opened in surprise, but no words came out, while Malcolm's eyes just grew wide at the suggestion. Finias was sure they were used to being chastised by people much older than him, but to have someone their own age - roughly - call them out was a shock. But that's what he wanted. He hadn't known it at the time, but when he'd decided two nights ago to go through with this plan, he'd made a decision to stand up to his father. He realized that now. Maybe it started as youthful defiance, or arrogance, but now he had been able to think it through, and decide that it was the path he truly wanted to take. He'd stood up to Varus once before, by running away, but there would be no more running. Now, he was ready to face his demons head on, and he didn't need anyone holding him back. These two children were either ready to back up their claims, or they could go back to Snowdonia with their tails between their legs.

"You listen here, you-" Malcolm began, but he never got a chance to finish. Finias saw a small dark globe of magical energy fly at them from his left, and he twisted away just as an explosion of blackness enveloped them. He felt the wave of energy scatter around him, and the touch of it felt cold to his skin. He turned back and saw Riordann, Kat and Malcolm lying on the ground, recovering their senses, while Aiden spun around and hefted his shield up in front of them, facing the hill to the northwest. That's when Finias saw what the Armsman was looking at.

Hibernians. Elves, Firbolgs, Lurikeens and Celts were starting to stream over the hill. Only a few at first, but more were showing up. Finias pulled out his bow and reached for an arrow. All he could think of was to attack, to fight back, but there were too many. He didn't know who to aim at. All he saw was an army slowly pouring over the hillside, coming right at them. All he could see was his death.

**Chapter 11**

"Move!"

Riordann heard Aiden's commanding shout above him as he felt a hand grab his arm just under the shoulder and haul him up off the ground. His eyes were open, but he was dazed and his vision was blurry. He didn't have to wonder what had happened, though, because he already knew. He recognized the Void magic of the Eldritch, a Hibernian mage who commanded strange and otherworldly powers, just as it hit. Luckily, it was a glancing blow, and he didn't think he was hurt too badly, but Aiden was right. They needed to move before their luck changed.

"This way! Up that hill!" Aiden kept shouting, and Riordann's vision cleared enough for him to see the Armsman helping Malcolm up off the ground too, and Finias helping Kat behind him. Once Malcolm was up on his feet, Aiden started running, leading them northwest, away from the bridge. Riordann followed, as did the others, and he looked back to see dozens of Hibernian invaders streaming over the hill to their west, across from the docks they'd just left on their way to Caer Benowyc. Ahead of the pack was a single, brazen elven mage, the Eldritch who no doubt had attacked them first, running ahead to get in range for another attack. As soon as he saw the Hibernians, Riordann suspected that they'd come by boat down the west shores of Hadrian's Wall, which is what they called the lands surrounding Caer Benowyc, and landed on the far side of the western hills. He'd seen this maneuver countless times before. They were no doubt headed this way to attack Benowyc, and saw Riordann's small group as easy pickings on their way to the keep. There was no way they'd outrun the Hibs up the riverbank and across the bridge - which might be hiding unseen advance Hibernian spies anyway - so Aiden was leading them to a closer defensive location, the western Benowyc guard tower. It was just up the hill across from the bridge, and it would give them at least a brief respite, but in the long run they couldn't hope to defend that tower alone, even with the guard contingent already there. They were going to need help.

Riordann heard a clang to his right, and he turned to see Malcolm stumbling forward from the force of an arrow that must have glanced off his shoulder. He held out a steadying hand, and Malcolm regained his footing then nodded his gratitude. That was followed by several more bolts of magic that flew wildly around them. The Hibs had Bards with them, mages who used their own special magic to push those around them, making them move even faster than normal. Which meant that what little lead they had on the Hibernians was disappearing... fast.

They reached a small clump of trees at the base of the hillside that provided them some cover, and the five of them, along with Aiden's dog, Bastion, darted through the brush. Riordann heard the whistle of an arrow as it flew just over his head, and a magical bolt hit a tree a few paces to his left, causing bark and splinters to spray out. Kat let out a muffled scream, and Riordann slowed to make sure she was okay. Her eyes were wide and her face was white, but physically she was all right, so he just grabbed her arm and held on as they ran through the trees. He was moving by instinct now, staying low and behind cover, moving fast, creating space and giving his enemies little to no target. It was what he'd done for over twenty years now, and he didn't even think about it anymore. He did feel fear, though, but it wasn't from the Hibernians. He was afraid of not making it back. He was afraid that after all this time, to be so close to returning to the Labyrinth, he could be stopped almost within sight of his goal.

As the tree cover cleared in front of them, Riordann could see the top of the stone tower popping up from behind the crest of the hill. The flag of Albion flew proudly at the top, and Riordann breathed a sigh of relief that the tower was still in Albion hands - although that could change shortly. They bounded out of the trees, sprinting up to the top of the hill and over the crest, the tower only about forty paces away now. It was a short, squat thing, three stories tall, made of stone, with a wide base that housed a stable and a small troop of guards, anywhere from eight to twenty depending on the need for defense in a particular area. It narrowed at the top, where the roof was surrounded by stone battlements, and manned by two or three archers and on occasion a Wizard. Two men-at-arms stood guard on either side of the wooden double doors, armored in full chain with spears in one hand and shields in the other. They must have heard the sounds of battle because they were hauling the doors open and one was yelling inside. When they saw Riordann and the others run toward the tower, they opened the door wider, recognizing fellow Albion citizens, and watched the horizon carefully for a sign of attack.

"Close the doors!" Aiden shouted as they ran through the entryway. "Hibs are attacking, from the south." He said, stopping just inside the doors. The two guards stepped inside after them and pulled the doors shut.

A stocky younger man, probably in his mid-twenties, met them just inside the doors. He was wearing the uniform of a Sergeant, chain armor topped with a plate hauberk, and covered with a red and blue surcoat, and he looked almost as scared as Kat. "What in God's name is happening out there?" He asked. Two other men were behind him, an archer and a man-at-arms.

"There's an army of Hibs outside." Aiden said, trying to catch his breath. "They came over the hill west of the docks. Did your men see their boats approach?"

The Sergeant looked confused. He turned to look at the archer who just shook his head. "No. We didn't see anything. No one arrived by boat along the west shore."

"You need to get this door barricaded and archers and casters up top fast. Where's your Commander?" Aiden shouted. The Sergeant looked like he was about to respond, but then he saw Aiden's brand, uncovered now that Aiden's hood had blown back during the run to the tower. A look of disgust swept across the Sergeant's face, and Aiden must have realized what happened, because his tone suddenly changed. "Where is your Commander?" He asked again, calmly.

The Sergeant still seemed flustered by the events. "He's at - at Beno." He said, but he was looking at Riordann now. "We had a Wizard arrive some time ago, hurt, and he went to fetch a Cleric."

"You're in charge, then?" Aiden asked.

"I am." The Sergeant stiffened. "I'm Sergeant Alder, of the Fifth Brigade. And I'd take care to remember that. Especially you."

Aiden was now noticeably trying to compose himself. "Sergeant Alder, the signal fire needs to be lit-" Aiden stopped when he heard a shout from above. The men up top had apparently seen the Hibs approaching.

"I don't need you to tell me how to do my job out here." Alder said to Aiden.

Riordann felt his patience wearing thin. He knew that if they didn't hurry, they'd be dead, and this Sergeant, as well meaning as he may be, would be a barrier to that if he didn't let experienced people take charge.

"Sergeant, my name is Riordann, of the Warhounds. I served as a Lieutenant under Captain Andreas. Do you know who that is?"

Sergeant Alder said nothing at first. His face showed that he knew those names, though whether he believed Riordann or not wasn't yet sure. The roars of encroaching Hibernians outside reminded everyone of their predicament, though, and Alder shook his head quickly. "Of-of course, sir. I know of you both."

"Then do me this favor, Sergeant. Consider everything this man says," he pointed to Aiden, "as a command coming from my own mouth. Do you understand?"

The Sergeant said nothing, his incessant blinking the only clue to his consciousness. Riordann was growing more frustrated by the second. Finally, "Him, sir?"

"Did you not hear me the first time?" Riordann asked, trying to sound as imposing as he could. It wasn't natural for him, but time was of the essence. He was too close now to let anything else slow him down.

"Yes, sir. I did."

"Good. Then get your men ready to defend this tower." His hand started to shake and he instinctively clenched it into a fist.

"Yes." Alder said, flustered. "Of course. Umm-"

"Get your archers to the top of the tower and light the signal fire so the defenders at Beno will know." Aiden said. "Everyone else needs to stay down here and barricade this door with anything that moves. You," Aiden grabbed Malcolm's chest plate at the shoulder, "stay with me." Malcolm nodded and moved next to Aiden, looking lost. Aiden turned to Riordann next. "Can you check up top?"

Riordann nodded and headed for the stairs. "Finias. Kat. Follow me, please." He said, and they both eagerly moved up the stairs behind him, although Kat still seemed shaken by the ordeal. Riordann had been here many times before, and he knew the place like the back of his hand. This tower, along with most in the Albion frontier, consisted of three levels, the bottom floor, which housed a small barracks and stable, a mid-level floor where the Commander's quarters and a storeroom could be found, and a top level, which was basically a roof surrounded by stone battlements. The stairs were built into the walls, wrapping around one half of the floor on it's way to the next. The second floor stairs only went to a landing halfway up, though, where a ladder reached up to a wooden panel in the ceiling that opened out onto the roof.

"Excuse me, sir." Alder said, suddenly appearing next to Riordann as they approached the second floor landing. "You're a Friar, aren't you?"

"I am."

"I was thinking," he began, "that perhaps you could look at the Wizard who showed up earlier. He's in bad shape, but if you could heal him, he could surely help us here."

" Of course, where is he?"

"He's in the Commander's quarters." Alder motioned behind him. "It's the room we just passed."

"Certainly." Riordann replied calmly. "After I find out what we're up against."

After climbing the ladder, they stepped onto the roof, which was surrounded by stone battlements, with wide embrasures, or crenels, between them. The crenels allowed archers and casters to attack from above while still providing them some cover. There were already two Scouts standing near the edge, each wearing full studded armor covered by the red and blue livery of Albion's army. Their bows were drawn, and they were firing arrows down onto the Hibernian invaders. They glanced at the newcomers and nodded at the Sergeant, but continued their assault unabated. Riordann led Finias and Kat to the edge of the wall and peered down through the closest opening. He could see around fifty Hibernians below him attacking the front of the tower, while three times that number seemed to be moving down the slope of the hill toward the bridge that led to the keep. This was no small force. This was the beginning of an invasion.

Riordann leaned back and let Kat and Finias take a look. "Careful." He said. "Don't linger, or else they'll get a good shot at you." Kat quickly stepped back, but Finias took his time, carefully gauging the enemy. An arrow bounced off the stone next to him and everyone nearby ducked. Riordann backed away from the edged, and then motioned to the battlements nearest him. "You two should set up there. I'll try to be back shortly to check on you. Finias." He said, and the young Scout looked at him. Riordann motioned to Kat. "Try to keep an eye on her."

Finias smirked, then pulled out his bow. "She'll be okay."

Riordann walked back to the ladder, but as he turned he saw something that caught him off guard. To the north, across the water, was the island of Agramon, where the main entrances to the Labyrinth could be found. Riordann's hand started shaking when he saw that, and he quickly closed his eyes and tried to fight off the urge to run as fast as he could to that place. He wanted to be back there more than anything, and that urge was powerful, so much so that he feared what it was doing to him. He needed to stay in control, though, for the sake of everyone else around him.

He felt his eyelids flicking open and closed, shuttering like hummingbird wings, and his legs started losing their strength. He reached out to the ladder, to steady himself, but it wasn't there. Suddenly, he was outside, in a vast wheat field. It was his field. His farm. He saw the brown timbered house where he lived off in the distance, and three children, his children, playing in front. He smiled, and started walking back to them, so he could scoop them up in his arms, and kiss each one on the cheek. He hoped his wife was inside, preparing dinner, and then they'd all eat and - and... He slowed his pace, confused. He couldn't remember his wife's name. He struggled, thinking it was just on the tip of his tongue, but nothing came to him. Maybe his oldest son would remember. But now his name was gone from his memory. As were the other two. He couldn't remember anything about them now.

A blast of void magic hitting the battlements shook him from his dream and he nearly stumbled forward reaching for the ladder. After steadying himself, he looked around, and noticed that everyone was still exactly where they'd been - no time had passed. Everything had happened in an instant, just like it always did. He quickly hurried down the ladder and once he reached the landing below he took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. His waking dreams were far less frequent now than when he'd been a captive, but it was still jarring when he came back to reality. He heard a noise above and saw Sergeant Alder following him down. He waited until Alder reached the landing and then they walked down the stairs to the second floor.

"Why did your commander go to the keep?" Riordann asked, feeling the need to say something, anything. "Why didn't he send someone instead?"

"We've had problems getting men and supplies from them lately. He wanted to go himself so he could yell at someone about it."

"Terrible timing, I'd say."

"Of course, sir."

"The Wizard is here?" Riordann said, pointing to the door at the bottom of the stairs.

"Yes, inside. That's the Commander's quarters."

"I'll check on him. Go back down and tell everyone what we saw."

"Right away." Alder said, and he bounded around the corner and down the next stairwell. Riordann heard an explosion outside the walls as he reached for the door handle - Eldritches trying to attack the doors, he presumed - and he cursed his luck for running into a marauding army of Hibs just as he came in sight of Agramon. His agitation was turning to anger, and his mind raced back to those three months he'd spent in a dungeon, alone and in the dark, and how he'd bided his time until he could make it back. All of that was about to be wasted, thanks to some terrible, terrible timing.

Inside was a fairly meager office, with a simple wooden desk sitting in front of a small window slit, some maps arrayed on the walls, an empty armor stand in the corner to his left, and a wooden cot to his right. In the cot was a disheveled man with long, stringy white hair. He wore the purple robes of a high ranking Wizard, but they were covered in mud and dirt, as was his face, although he was turned away from him, asleep and facing the wall. Riordann moved next to the cot and leaned over to examine the man's wounds, but he couldn't find any obvious ones. In fact, this Wizard seemed to be more malnourished and exhausted than injured.

"Wake up." He patted the man's arm, trying to wake him gently, although the fact that he'd slept through the commotion up to this point meant he might need to resort to rougher tactics. Surprisingly, the Wizard's eyes flittered open, and he turned to face the Friar, who was now kneeling on the ground next to him. Riordann had initially thought this man was a bit older than him, due to his white hair and haggard appearance, but now he thought differently. This Wizard was probably around his age, maybe a bit younger even. In fact, as he stared at the gaunt face before him, he started to realize that he recognized the man under the dirt and mud.

And Riordann smiled, for he knew that Fate had struck again, for this was no ordinary Wizard. The man he saw lying before him was his friend and fellow Warhound, lost to him in the caverns below the Labyrinth on that fateful day three months ago.

"Landon?" He asked, hoping he wasn't imagining this, too.

The Wizard slowly looked up at him, his eyes squinting, then opening in surprise. "Riordann?" He said quietly, staring back as if wondering himself whether this was a dream. "Is that you?"

Riordann gave his old friend a hug. "It is. I'm here."

"I can't believe I found you." Landon said. His voice was hoarse and raw, like he hadn't spoken in some time.

"Found me?" Riordann was surprised. "How are you even here? I thought you were still down under the Labyrinth."

"I was. I..." His voice trailed off and he seemed lost in thought. Then, "I escaped. I'm not sure how."

Riordann heard a loud thump from below, and he grimaced. The Hibs already had a ram up on the door, and they would break through in moments.

"I'm going to heal you, Landon. Are you hurt anywhere?"

Landon thought about that a moment, then shook his head. "I'm tired." He said.

Riordann smiled. "I can fix that." He said, and he began to cast his healing spells. He wasn't able to finish the first one, however, before stopping with a grimace on his face. Guilt was suddenly tugging horribly at Riordann's soul. He wanted to go back to the Labyrinth, to where his friends were. That's what he told Aiden and Finias. But he wasn't going there to save them, no matter how much he pretended that to be the case. He couldn't tell them the real reason, not until they saw it for themselves, and they would, soon. But he'd been able to accept his lies up to this point because he thought his friends down there were already beyond saving. He thought they were either dead, or in a place they didn't need rescue from.

But now, seeing Landon here, he knew there really was a chance to save the others. And that went against everything he'd hoped for the last three months. If he'd made it out, the others could, too. And the idea of that tore him apart inside. He could save them, but did he want to anymore?

"Landon, we're going back to the Labyrinth." Riordann said, the lie coming naturally to him by now. "To save the others."

"I know." Landon said quietly. "That's why I'm here."

"What?"

"I don't know how I escaped, but I know who helped me. He saved me, Riordann. He sent me to find help." Landon was smiling now.

"Who did?" Riordann asked.

"King Arthur." Landon said reverently. "He's returned to save us all."

**Chapter 12**

Malcolm waited anxiously at the foot of the stairs as the tower door - and the tower itself he thought - shook violently from the impact of the Hibernian ram. The Hibs were pounding the door from the outside, sieging the tower as the first step in an apparent Albion invasion and Malcolm was trying his best to settle his nerves. He knew what was about to happen, he remembered the stories his uncle told him about keep and tower sieges and the bloody room to room combat that entailed once the door came down, and he wanted to be ready. He was counting the seconds between each strike of the ram, using the monotony of it to keep his mind occupied, and calm against the threat of death that was looming over everyone in the room. Counting was a trick his uncle had taught him as a child, long before he'd died out here in the realm wars, and Malcolm stuck to it as a way to honor him. It helped him focus, whether during sword-training drills, working on his footwork, or any of the other mundane chores his uncle had insisted he perform as part of his training. He'd tried to get his sister, who was far more excitable than he was, to try counting to calm herself, but she thought it was silly. He wondered if she still thought so now.

"Hold!" Aiden shouted, as he, Sergeant Alder, and four men-at-arms pushed up against the interior of the door, which was barricaded by a thick wooden beam that sat on metal brackets, as well as a shelf full of chain and leather armor pieces, two wooden chairs, and a bench. Malcolm would have been helping, but there was no more room at the door, and Aiden had told him to wait here, so he was waiting here. He was scared. He could admit that to himself. Who wouldn't be in a situation like this, with an army waiting outside those wooden doors, ready to slaughter everyone inside? But he was also just a little proud of himself, because he'd discovered in these last few moments that he was more worried about living up to his uncle's expectations than whatever may be on the other side of that door. He was inexperienced, and he was raw, but right at this moment he knew he would rather fight than run away. And if he was to die today, then at least it would be as a warrior, and not a scared little child playing pretend, which he knew was how everyone thought of him.

The door shook again, and Malcolm heard a loud crack in the wooden beam. "They're almost in!" Aiden shouted. He backed away from the door and picked up his shield, which had been lying on the ground nearby. "Form a shield wall high up on those stairs! You." Aiden slapped a nearby man-at-arms on the shoulder. "Go up top and tell them to get down here. We need everyone here in the stairwell!" The man-at-arms nodded and ran past Malcolm and up the stairs. The others started running past him as well but they stopped about halfway up, where the stairs disappeared behind the walls of the second floor above them as they wrapped around the inner wall. They hefted their shields and began forming two lines, three men wide, with shields overlapping. This was where they would make their stand.

Aiden sent Bastion, who'd been sitting at the base of the stairs, up to the second floor with a quick shout and nudge in the dog's backside. Then he picked up his spear, which was also laying on the ground, and handed it to Malcolm. "Here." He said. Malcolm took the wooden spear, and was a little underwhelmed by its meager quality. "It's a goblin spear. It's not much to look at, but it's brought me luck so far."

"What do I do with it?" Malcolm asked, not understanding why he couldn't just use his sword.

"You stand behind me in the shield wall, and you use that spear to gut anyone who gets close. Keep your shield on your back for now, and hold that thing with two hands. Then just jab it over my shoulder as hard as you can." Aiden held his fists together and made an overhand stabbing motion. "If they get past me, you drop the spear and use your sword instead, because that thing's useless in the front line. "Malcolm nodded and followed Aiden up the stairs, then took his place in the line just behind him. Malcolm's uncle had told him about fighting in the shield wall, how the enemies were close enough that you could feel the heat of their breath and smell the sweat on their face. It was the place where warriors were truly born, he'd always said, and Malcolm felt his stomach turn at the thought. The two men on either side of him were close in, shoulder to shoulder, and he felt cramped in the narrow space, but he wouldn't let them down. He held the spear up high and waited for the inevitable battle to come.

"If you're a Paladin, then you've learned your holy Chants, right?" Aiden asked, barely glancing back.

"Yes." Malcolm nodded.

"Good."Aiden said as he took his place between the two other men-at-arms in the front line. "Now would be a great time to use them."

Malcolm smiled, appreciating the levity. Aiden reminded him of his uncle somewhat, although he was an Armsman and not a Paladin. But still, they carried themselves with the same authority and they both had a boldness about them that made Malcolm think they were always in control and never afraid. Malcolm had adored his uncle, as had his sister, and even though he was reticent at first to go through with this trip to the Labyrinth, he felt sure he could serve with a man like Aiden.

The tower shook again, and this time the pounding was joined by a roar of Hibernian voices, followed by a cacophony of screeching and crashing below. From where he stood, Malcolm could only see the area of the bottom floor where the stairs reached the ground. But he knew what was happening as soon as he saw sunlight pour into the bottom of the stairwell. Shadows danced on the ground below them, and Malcolm gripped the wooden spear shaft tightly. The Hibernians were in the tower, and he would be face to face with them in seconds. Now was the time to make his uncle proud.

Kat had never been more terrified in her life. She was crouched down behind the battlements at the top of the tower, hiding for dear life from the small army of Hibernain casters and archers on the ground below. Arrows whistled over her head constantly while black and red magical bolts crashed into the stone around her, sending pieces of rock skittering across the roof behind her. A stone platform, about waist-high, stood in the center of the tower roof, supporting a giant stack of wood that was now covered in flames, a signal for the neighboring towers and keeps that they were under attack. Kat desperately hoped that an Albion army was nearby, and that they could see that signal fire and were on their way already. She knew it wasn't likely, but right now that hope was the only thing keeping her from losing her composure and embarrasing herself, or worse, fainting.

Finias was to her left, at the next battlement, calmly firing arrow after arrow at the Hibernians below and only casually moving or dodging away from return fire. She wondered how he was able to do that so easily, so unafraid. He was about her age, but he carried himself like he'd been fighting out here for years. His cold, dark eyes showed no fear or worry at all. Meanwhile, she was so completely petrified that she couldn't even muster the courage to peek back out from behind the wall to see how many Hibs were down there. She knew the door was being rammed down, she could feel it in the trembling vibrations that shook the entire tower, and wondered for the eigth time how much longer it would be before they broke it down and started pouring in. And that, of course, made her wonder how her first real trip to the frontier had gone so badly, and so quickly.

Kat was an elementalist, specifically an Earth Theurgist. Perhaps not a fully-trained one, but she was a Theurgist nonetheless, capable of raising the earth itself to attack her enemies or defend her allies. But all she could do right now was flinch at every nerve-wracking whine, pop, rumble or hiss around her. Kat closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on her progressions. Her abilities were mostly defensive in nature, providing support to those around her, and her uncle had helped her devise a set of progressions, ability checklists basically, to go through in different situations. She knew a spell that created a magical, invisible 'bubble' around herself and her allies, that would sometimes protect against a sword strike or most arrows. She could imbue melee weapons with tiny bits of earth that made them more jagged, or she could sharpen blades to help them penetrate armor. She could also lighten the weight of the heavy metals those weapons were made of, allowing their wielders to swing them faster.

But her defining ability as a Theurgist was the magic that allowed her to create Earth Beings, or what she referred to as her little pets. She could animate the ground itself and create small creatures made of rock, usually as tall as her knee. They had little in the way of defining features, looking mostly like big rocks cobbled together in the vague shape of a person, but she could create and control around a dozen at a time, and send them at different targets. The focus and concentration required for such a task was great, and the longest she'd been able to sustain that many pets at once before was less than a minute. But her little pets could turn the tide of a battle - as her uncle kept telling her. He'd always remind her that a Warrior from Midgard or a Hero from Hibernia would have little trouble with those things, but an archer or caster in the back lines would have a terrible time trying to focus on their duties with all those pets pounding on their legs. It wasn't glamorous work, but it was important, and that's why she needed to try to help.

Her other spells were far more useful to the men defending below, like her brother, and she was upset with herself for not thinking of that before coming up here, but she could try and keep the attackers distracted enough that Finias or the other archers with her could hit them without worrying too much about getting hit back. The problem, though, was that to create a pet she needed to see who she would send the pet against, as that was part of the creation spell. If she couldn't see her target, then the pet would just stand there, lifeless, until the magic wore off. She swallowed and counted to ten, taking a deep breath at each number - another trick her uncle taught her - then slowly moved toward the edge of the battlement, hoping to find a Hib near the edges away from too many others, and hoping even more to find one that wasn't paying too close attention to the tower roof. She just needed time to concentrate without getting killed.

Just as her eyes reached the edge of the stone, however, she heard a explosion behind her. Kat ducked without even thinking, fearing the worst, but as soon as she realized she wasn't hurt she turned to see the crossbowman to her right laying on the ground a few feet from her, clutching his arm and gritting his teeth in pain. She couldn't see a wound, but she knew he was hurt because blood was dripping through his chain armor near the shoulder. Her first instinct was to grab him and pull him back against the wall, or maybe to the ladder, but her body wasn't moving. Stepping away from the battlement meant exposing herself to the casters and archers below, and just giving them a second could be enough to get her killed. But she needed to do something. She'd gone through too much to get here, and she needed to prove herself. But even though Kat knew all of this, she couldn't make herself leave that wall.

"The door's coming down!" Kat heard a shout, and turned to see a man-at-arms on the ladder, poking his head up through the roof panel. He disappeared a second later and at first she didn't know what to do, but when she saw the other archers around her start to pack up their bows and arrow bags, she realized that everyone was moving back down. One of the other archers ducked over to the injured crossbowman and helped him up to his feet and Kat felt disappointment welling up inside her as she watched someone else help him to the ladder. She was desperate to get back inside, where there were walls and a roof that could protect her. But now her conscience balked at the thought of looking like a useless failure by scurrying off the roof before the others. So she sat still and waited as everyone else grabbed their gear and moved down the ladder. Everyone except one.

"Finias!" She shouted. "Come on!"

He either didn't hear her or he was ignoring her, because he hadn't moved from his spot, still firing away with a look on his face that suggested he was enjoying this. Kat held her breath, then leaped away from the battlement, toward the ladder. She refused to crawl on the ground, even though it was safer, and for once her will dictated her actions instead of fear. She quickly stepped down a few rungs of the ladder, and relished the protection she now felt with stone walls around her, but when she glanced back at Finias, she noticed he still hadn't moved from his spot.

"Finias!"

He slowed his assault just long enough to glance back at her in annoyance. "Go! I'll catch up!"

Kat almost heeded him, stepping down the ladder to safety, but then she thought back to the injured archer, and she knew she couldn't just run off and leave anyone else to their fate. She'd failed during a critical moment, and she needed to make up for that if she was to live up to her own expectations. A loud crash came from below mixed with a roar of Hibernian cheers, and her stomach twisted again. The door must be down. Her brother was down there, and he needed her help, which meant she needed to do something quickly. There was no more time to be indecisive.

"Finias!" She screamed at him as she climbed back up onto the roof. "We have to go! Now!" She lunged toward him and grabbed his arm, intending to pull him back toward the ladder, but what happened next was lost to the blackness that suddenly overtook her.

Riordann stared blankly at his old friend, lying weakly on a cot in the Commander's quarters and wondered if he'd found him after all this time, just to see him lost to madness.

"Arthur is dead, Landon." He explained, like a parent would to a child. "He died thirty years ago."

Landon shook his head. "I saw him. He told me he was in trouble. He said he needed help."

"You saw him... in a dream?" Riordann asked hopefully.

"No! No, he was there. I could - I could touch him."

Riordann sighed heavily. He didn't have any abilities that would help him tend a muddled mind. They would need a Sorceror for that. All he could do was heal his wounds and rejuvenate his aching bones and muscles, and hope that that would be enough for him think clearly.

"Let me heal you. It will help you relax, and clear your mind. You'll feel better."

Landon smiled weakly and laid his head down.. "He told me others were coming, Riordann. I knew it was you."

Riordann smiled back as he started casting his spells. "I'm glad you thought so." A question came to him just then. "What about Andreas? Or Tholstan? Did you see them, too?"

Landon closed his eyes and grimaced as Riordann clasped his left hand and let his healing magic course through the Wizard's body. "No. Are they still down there?"

Riordann tried to be careful with his answer. He wanted to know if either of them had been spotted going back to those caverns, to help prove his suspicions, especially about Andreas. But he didn't feel the need to get Landon caught up in his worries until he knew it to be true. "They escaped with me."

"Are they here, too?"

"No. " Riordann shook his head. "It's a long story." Riordann pulled his hands away and watched as Landon opened his eyes and slowly lifted himself up. His strength was returning quickly, Riordann noticed, and his eyes were clear and alert. He sat on the edge of the cot and started rubbing his face.

"How long was I down there?" He asked.

"About three months."

His expression didn't change at first, but then understanding slowly started to seep in and Riordann saw surprise on his old friend's face. "Are you sure?"

"I am." Riordann nodded slowly.

"It didn't feel that long."

"It did for me." Riordann said quietly, thinking back to his captivity. His three months in that dungeon felt like three years, and only his dreams kept him from losing his own mind. He heard muffled shouts outside the door, and the sound of armored footsteps running by, and he knew the significance of that.

"What's that noise?" Landon asked. He was looking around the room as if he'd just realized where he was.

"Hibs are attacking. Sounds like they're almost through the door." Riordann raised an eyebrow at his old friend. "If I remember correctly, this is the kind of situation where your talents are quite useful."

Landon stared at one of the maps on the wall nearby, but Riordann suspected that he wasn't really looking at it. "How was I gone that long?"

"I don't know." Riordann was suddenly jealous of Landon, envious of the fact that he'd not known the passage of time during his ordeal. But that only steeled his resolve. Once he returned, he could do the same, and his pain would be forgotten. "Do you remember your dreams?"

Landon looked confused at that question. "What dreams?"

"You don't remember what you dreamt of down there?"

"I, uh... " He began. His eyes darted back and forth, like he was remembering something, but then he blinked and snapped out of it. "I don't really remember much of anything. I don't even remember sleeping. But I must have, somewhere down there."

"But you remember Arthur? Alive?"

Landon hesitated, and Riordann was glad. Maybe his friend had just been delirious earlier, ranting from exhaustion. But that moment didn't last long. "I do." He nodded, not looking at Riordann. "That wasn't a dream, Riordann. Everything that happened down there was hazy. But I remember that at least. He came to me, and he told me I would be the one to save him. Me, Riordann." Landon shook his head at the thought. "He said I'd find help, and I have. So now it's up to us to do what comes next."

"What comes next?" Riordann asked carefully.

Landon stood up slowly and groaned, stretching his sore muscles. Riordann stood to help him, but the Wizard waved him off. "I'm going to go kill some Hibs." He smiled then grabbed Riordann by the shoulders, suddenly confident in his demeanor. "And then we're going to save Albion."

Landon opened the door and walked out, and Riordann frowned. His entire plan had just become much more complicated, and he worried how it would affect those around him. And what he might have to do if they wanted to stop him.

Somehow, Finias knew it was coming before it even happened. His arrows weren't especially effective against the heavy armor of the Hibernians manning the ram, so instead he'd been aiming for the casters and healers in the back lines and watching in amusement as they scurried about for cover while he picked them off one by one. At first, he'd only been trying to push them back by aiming for their legs and arms, or even incapaciate them to keep them from casting or firing arrows back. But that had been a bad idea. The Hibs were smart, and by leaving them alive, they'd been able to plan a counter attack. They moved out of range, or changed their targets, or slipped out of his range of vision, all to distract him or to lull him into thinking he was winning. And just when Kat tried to pull him back, they had moved in and attacked his position en masse. He saw the barrage of bolts and arrows coming from the corner of his eye, and he'd been able to dodge the brunt of it as stone exploded around him, but Kat was hit in the head, and she fell to the ground in a heap. Incredibly bad timing on her part, he figured.

Finias leaned over and checked her breathing, and was relieved to find that she was still alive. But her hair was matted with blood, and she'd need Riordann's help very soon. He knew how dangerous a head wound could be and there was no point in taking any chances. He looked back and saw that the battlement he'd been hiding behind was half destroyed anyway, and he counted himself lucky to not be dead right now. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, then leaned over to pick her up intending to carry her down to the lower levels. As he leaned over, though, he saw blood on his sleeve. He wiped his forehead with his hand this time and confirmed that he was also bleeding. He hadn't felt the wound at first, but now he could feel a throbbing in the side of his head, which was quickly getting worse. But all of a sudden he wasn't worried about that, or even concerned about Kat. The only thing he felt was anger. He was angry at himself for getting hurt, and angry at the Hibernians for even being here. He wasn't about to let these Hib invaders come to his lands and take a piece of him or of any one else. Not now, not ever. He grabbed his bow again, leaving Kat lying unconscious on the roof behind him, and leaped over to the next battlement.

He peered around the edge and saw that most of the Hibernians have rushed inside the broken door, but several of the casters and healer were staying back, their arms moving frantically as they worked to keep those in front of them alive. They probably thought they'd killed him with their attack but he was about to prove them dead wrong. He loosed arrow after arrow at the attackers below, and while a few missed their mark, most did not. One pierced a Lurikeen in the leg, just below the hip. Another caught a Celt in the center of his chest. Then he struck an Elf in the neck, who dropped to the ground, writhing about and clutching his throat. Finias reveled in the moment, no longer concerned about the bloodlust he'd feared his whole life. It was coming naturally to him now, one arrow after another. Suddenly, he was a hunter, perched on the high ground, and everything below him was prey.

He found a Hibernian mage, an Eldritch maybe, he didn't really know. He was dressed all in black, black robe, black cloak, black boots, and he was waving his arms about maniacally in the casting motions of whichever Hib caster he'd wasted his time training to become. Finias fired an arrow at him and saw it strike the mage's chest, near his right shoulder. The mage spun away, clutching at the arrow, and started to run away clumsily, but Finias would have none of that. He fired again, this time striking the mage in the calf, and he fell to the ground. Finias ducked back behind the battlement, and pictured his next shot in his mind. The killing shot. He pulled the arrow out, nocked it, then stepped back over to the crenellation and fired. The arrow found it's mark, puncturing the Hib's throat at an angle that caused the bodkin to exit from the back of the head. The Hib stopped writhing and Finias smiled at how easy this was for him.

He aimed for another target, a Celt Ranger, Hibernia's counter to the Scout. The Celt fired an arrow at Finias' position, but he ducked back as it bounced harmlessly off the edge of the battlement. Finias peered back around and aimed at the Celt, and saw that he was running away, hoping to get out of range most likely. Finias aimed for the Ranger's legs, hoping to cripple him like the mage, but the Ranger made that a moot point when he stopped. Finias glanced just ahead of the Ranger, noticing movement in the trees behind the Hibernian attackers, the same movement the Ranger was now seeing, and backing away from. Finias saw him turn and run back to his allies, shouting something in warning, only to get cut down by an axe in his back. The Ranger dropped to the ground, still alive, but barely, and Finias watched as a new horde of attackers emerged from the shadows of the forest to finish him off, mercilessly.

The Firbolg Hero was inches from Aiden's face, and he was laughing.

Hibernians didn't have Armsmen. They had Heroes. That was the word they used in their language to describe the same kind of soldier that Aiden was - heavily armored, shield, large weapons, a true front line combatant. Because of the physical nature of the job, most Heroes were Firbolgs, one of the 'old races' of Hibernia, the peoples of that island who'd inhabited it long before the Celts came. Firbolgs were large, about a head talled than Britons, with a strong yet gangly frame, long arms, and big feet. Their head was bigger than normal as well as a bit wider, making their faces look stretched over their skulls. This one had brown eyes, a wide nose and mouth, short spiky black hair, and grizzled, tanned skin.

And he was laughing at Aiden.

They were pressed together is a clash of shield walls, Hibernia's soldiers trying to push up the narrow stairwell and Albion's soldiers trying to push them back down. Aiden was straining against the raw strength of the Firbolg, who was right in front of him, their shields locked together, their faces both desperate and angry. This one seemed to be their leader, shouting to the others around him to push forward in their language. His armor was polished and expensive, but it was also scratched, dented and dimmed by warfare, and that, to Aiden, was the mark of a dangerous and experienced warrior.

"Push!" Aiden shouted, and both lines of defenders took a coordinated step forward, albeit a small one, the second row pushing on the backs of those in front. The clanking of armor plates smashing into each other echoed through the stairwell, and the Hibernians held strong, using their greater numbers to keep the Albion defenders in place. Aiden saw the Hero's eyes dart up, then his head suddenly tilted to the side as a spear jabbed over Aiden's right shoulder, missing the Firbolg by inches.

Good try, Aiden thought. Malcolm had actually injured the first man to run up the stairs and engage them, a Celt Champion who barged into Aiden's shield only to take a spear into his arm. The Champion fell back, replaced by the Hero and all the rest of the Hibernian attackers, but Aiden had been surprisingly impressed by Malcolm at that moment and was glad to have him at his back.

The Hero roared a command of his own, and the Hibernian front line, supported by three more behind them, pushed up, and Aiden had no choice but to back up almost two steps. He was out of practice, his strength wasn't what it used to be, and now his muscles were screaming at him from the exertion. But there was no giving up now. Not unless he wanted death. A spear jabbed in under his shield, missing his legs, and Aiden responded by awkwardly hacking his own sword over his shield at the Celt on his right. The blow struck armor, but there wasn't enough force behind it to pierce the metal. Aiden cursed, wishing he had an axe instead, which was much more useful in a shield wall than a longsword.

"Push!" He yelled, and the Albs came forward again, and again they gained only inches of ground. The Firbolg yelled, and the Hibs pushed them back up another two steps. They were running out of room in the stairwell fast, and Aiden's only backup plan was to retreat up to the roof, where they could hopefully cut off attackers as they came up the stairs. That would work for a while, at least until the Hibs rained siege weapons down on them, or just razed the entire tower, destroying it, and them with it. The stairwell was curved, and that made it difficult for the Hib casters and archers to get a good shot at Aiden or his fellow defenders, so they could hold here for a few more minutes at least, maybe longer, but if no reinforcements showed up soon, they wouldn't survive this ordeal.

A crossbow bolt clanged off the helmet of a Celt in the second row, and Aiden glanced back to see that the archers from above were moving in behind them. The second and third rows of Hibs started raising their shields to provide cover for those in front, and a call went up in the back lines that no doubt warned those behind that archers were firing. Suddenly, a barrage of magical bolts hit the walls to Aiden's left, as the Hib casters down below began counterattacking. The explosions were small and glancing, but the man-at-arms closest to them, the one protecting Aiden's left side, fell back trying to take cover, and that was a huge mistake in a shield wall. Another Firbolg stood to the Hero's right, and he pushed up, knocking the man-at-arms off balance and sending him falling backward against the line behind him. Aiden twisted, partly because he was now exposed, and partly to try and pin the other Firbolg against the left wall before he could cut down the fallen Alb defender. The Hero in the center sensed the disorganization and he also pressed in, holding his sword high as he readied to strike.

Aiden knew the shield wall was about to fall apart around him, and he knew things would get really nasty if that happened. The second Firbolg was pushing past him, his sword out now, ready to gut the fallen man-at-arms like a pig. The only thing holding him back was the confined space and Aiden's jostling with his shield. But the Hero was about to get a clear shot at him, and he couldn't hold off both Firbolgs at once, while also avoiding tripping over the man to his left. He had to make a choice - he could either pick a target and commit to him, hoping the rest of the defenders around him could compensate until the man-at-arms was back on his feet, or he could try to hold both Firbolgs off, and surely fall himself in the process. So he gambled, and faced up against the Hero, knowing that God had not taken him this far just to see everything fall apart again. He just hoped that the men to his left could somehow protect themselves, and him.

But that's when two fateful things happened. The first was when Malcolm threw himself forward into the gap on Aiden's left side, hefting his large shield in one hand, the spear in the other. The spear was useless at this point, but Malcolm either didn't know that, or just plain forgot to drop it and switch weapons. Either way, Aiden was just glad to have someone there. The boy blocked the Firbolg's sword with his shield, seemingly by accident, and used his own considerable size to keep the Firbolg at bay. He was almost straddling the fallen man-at-arms, who was now trying to crawl behind the Paladin and get back on his feet. Somehow, Malcolm's strength and balance made the whole maneuver, as dangerous as it could have been, look easy.

The second was when Aiden heard a strangely familiar voice shouting behind him to make room. Aiden chanced a glance behind him and saw a ragged-looking Wizard moving through the cramped mass of Albs in the back, with the posture and grace of someone familiar to situations like this. Aiden's eyes grew wide as he recognized another old face from his past - the Warhound Wizard named Landon, who smiled when he saw Aiden in front of him. Landon deftly moved between the armored men around him and stood just behind the Armsman.

"Duck." That was all he said.

"Get down!" Aiden yelled as he crouched, holding his shield up to cover his head. Bright blue light suddenly flashed out above him in waves, and Aiden felt the air around him grow instantly cold. Landon's magic was designed to emanate from his own body, pulsing outward as a powerful defense mechanism. The magic froze living skin, causing incredible pain, and even though it only hit those he deemed as enemies, Aiden never liked being too close - just in case Landon made a mistake, or got careless. The Hibs in the front lines screamed out in pain, patches of their skin hardening and turning blue. They started falling back, front lines pushing on back lines, trying to escape the stairwell and the blasting cold. They retreated back down to the bottom level in a disorganized mess, but that wouldn't last long.

"Reform the lines!" Aiden stood up and watched the retreating Hibs cautiously. "Hurry!" The Hibs were already regrouping at the bottom of the stairs, fresh soldiers moving to the front while the injured ones moved back to let the Hibernian healers - which they called Druids - tend to them. Except that Hero. He just stood at the base of the steps, watching Aiden, and Landon, menacingly.

"I'm surprised to see you here." Landon said, behind him.

"Been a lot of surprises the last few days, Landon. You need to back up, though, because that entire army will be looking for you first when they get regrouped."

"Right." Landon slipped back behind the second line and waited amongst the archers in the back. Aiden saw that Malcolm was still next to him, and still holding that spear. Aiden shook his head and took it from him.

"Use your sword now." Malcolm nodded quickly and pulled his longsword from it's scabbard. He looked nervous, and Aiden want to calm him. "You're doing good." He said, and Malcolm nodded again.

The Hero roared his commands from below, still looking at Aiden like he'd just seen his next meal. The Hibernians began to rally around him, ready for another push, and Aiden hoped they had enough strength left to keep holding them back. Landon made things much easier, but they still couldn't hold off their numbers forever. If they stayed here in the stairwell, at some point they would get overrun and cut to pieces, so Aiden had to judge the strength of everyone around him, to make sure they could fall back before that happened. He looked at his fellow defenders in the stairwell, and he saw a group of Albs who were weary, bruised and scared. Their breath was heavy, and sweat poured from their faces, but Aiden could tell they had enough in them for more. He could judge a fighter, a true warrior, that had always been a gift of his, and he knew these men weren't ready to give up yet. Even Sergeant Alder, who stood behind him and to his right, looked eager for a fight, his eyes wild and a small hint of satisfaction on his face.

Suddenly a horn sounded outside the tower and the Hibernians stopped in confusion, peering behind them. It took only seconds for them to notice something amiss, and they quickly retreated from the stairwell and ran back out the tower door. Aiden could hear shouting, blades clashing together, and the whine of powerful magic outside and he cautiously stepped down to the base of the stairwell to find an empty bottom floor. The doors were cracked open, damaged beyond any kind of quick repair, which meant there was no point closing them or even barricading them. The sounds of combat were louder now, so Aiden moved to the open door, holding his hand up to keep everyone else back, and peered out from inside the tower.

What he saw outside was chaos. The forces of Midgard were here now, streaming out of the forest behind the Hib lines, and also veering east, toward the bridge that led to Benowyc. They must have been in the area and caught wind of the Hib attack, deciding to take advantage by attacking the smaller Hibernian tower force first. The horn had been a Hib trying to warn their allies at the keep that a new enemy was on the field, because now more Hibernians were charging across the bridge far in the distance to meet the incoming Mid forces. In the field just outside the tower Firbolgs, Elves, Lurikeens and Celts were fighting Trolls, Norsemen, Dwarves and Kobolds, all for the right to eventually wipe out the small force of Albion soldiers defending this tower.

"Mids are attacking!" Aiden heard Finias' voice and turned to see the Scout coming down the stairs with Kat over his shoulder. They were both bleeding from head wounds, and Kat was unconscious.

"What happened?" Malcolm rushed over and they laid her down on the steps, Riordann leaned over to take a look at her wound.

"The roof exploded." Finias replied. "She got hit."

Riordann ran his hands through Kat's blood-matted hair, examining her head. "It's fixable." He said finally. "But not here." He turned to look at Aiden, who quickly understood.

"What does that mean?" Malcolm, who had held up well in the shield wall, was now losing his temper. "What do you mean not here?"

"Carry her." Aiden told Malcolm. "We'll heal her somewhere else. We're leaving this tower."

"What? Why?" Sergeant Alder stepped forward. "We held them off. We can do it again until reinforcements come."

"No, we can't. No matter who wins that fight outside, they'll still outnumber us five to one. Probably more. And any reinforcements that manage to get out here will be going to the keep, not this tower." Aiden glanced back outside, gauging distances to the treeline. "If we don't leave now, we're dead."

Silence throughout the room seemed to affirm Aiden's assessment.

Alder stepped up next to Aiden, looking outside carefully. "Then how do we escape with two armies fighting right outside?"

"We pray." Aiden said calmly. "Then we run."

A chorus of silent, curt nods followed, and Aiden knew there was no time left to waste. Malcolm lifted his sister into his arms while Finias held out his bow, an arrow already knocked. Riordann and Landon, longtime veterans of these wars, stood together and shared a knowing look. Sergeant Alder rallied his men behind him, men-at-arms and archers, some injured, some exhausted, but none ready to give up. And Aiden stood in front of them all, ready to lead them out to safety. He thought back to two days ago, to a time just before finding that Thane on the road outside Humberton, before meeting Finias and then finding Riordann outside his door. He'd been convinced then that this life was over, that his time in battle had come and gone. Yet here he stood, standing in a broken tower, with a small group of defenders looking to him for leadership, looking to him to keep them alive. He didn't understand how he'd gotten here, but he was glad he was, even with the specter of death looming over them. This was what he was. This was what he lived for. He had his second chance now, he truly believed that, and he wasn't going to let anyone who was counting on him down. Not now, not ever.

"We'll swing around the left side of the tower and go south, into the trees behind us. If we get split up, we rally on the far side of the woods, at the other end of the plateau." He paused. "Hopefully all of us."

Everyone nodded in agreement. Aiden held up his battered shield, sheathed his sword, and grabbed his lucky goblin spear. One day, he'd have to replace it with something a little sturdier and sharper, but not today. Today, he wanted something in his hands he trusted, and felt comfortable with, and the spear - the symbol of an Armsman - would do just that. He patted his thigh, rapping the armor loudly, and Bastion emerged from behind the legs of the nearby men-at-arms, tail wagging, completely unaware of what he was about to get himself into.

"Let's go." He said to the dog, and charged out the door into the fray.


	2. The Hibernia Storyline

**Prologue**

In a time long since passed, the three great realms of Albion, Hibernia and Midgard lived in an uneasy peace, brokered by the sheer strength of will of Albion's King Arthur. From his home in Camelot, the capital city of Albion, Arthur presided over an era of prosperity that was unprecedented in the history of the three realms. But it was also a time for resentments and rivalries to simmer below the surface. Arthur's era of peace was about to end...

Albion was the fertile land of the Britons and Highlanders, led by the great King Arthur himself. Along with their mystical Avalonian allies, as well as the Saracens, dark-skinned warriors from the south whom Arthur himself had recruited to the cause, the people of Albion sought to become a mighty kingdom that would bring order to their corner of the world. Unfortunately, not everyone agreed with Arthur's vision.

Midgard was the frozen land of the north, home of the Norsemen, Trolls, Dwarves and Kobolds. The Norsemen were viking raiders, led by King Eiric, who sought to find new lands where they could stake their claim. The hardy Dwarves were their allies, as were the giant, stone-skinned Trolls from the mountains and the small, blue-skinned Kobolds from the Undercity.

These races of Midgard, unable to live off the land of their birth, needed to expand their reach, but Albion, and Arthur, blocked their way.

Hibernia was the magical land of the Celts, fierce warriors who had long been subjugated by their more powerful neighbor, Albion. The Celts, led by Lug Lamfhota allied themselves with the 'old races' of Hibernia, the mighty Firbolgs, the diminutive Lurikeen and the haughty Elves, to free themselves of Albion's long-standing dominion over them. All they needed was an opportunity to show their strength.

On Arthur's death, the realms mourned, for they knew times were about to change for the worse. War came shortly after as Midgard invaded, looking for new lands, Hibernia threw off the yoke of their Albion masters, and Albion sought to defend their homeland against two great aggressors. At stake was not only the future of the realms, but of the frontier lands between them, where powerful magical artifacts known as Relics were housed. Whoever controlled these Relics, controlled the strength and power that their magic provided to an entire realm.

For thirty years now these realms have fought, trading lands, Relics, and lives. The balance of power has shifted back and forth among them, but none of the three realms has ever been able to strike a blow decisive enough to claim a final victory. But times are changing. Midgard's ageing armies have been slowly dwindling in numbers, and Hibernia's forces have suffered several notable defeats. Albion, long under siege, is slowly but surely reaching the brink of victory.

But old enemies lurk beneath the surface, waiting for the right time to strike. And the three realms, weakened by decades of war, are at their most vulnerable. The fate of the realms, and their people, is at stake.

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**Book 1 – The Gathering**

**by Alistair McIntyre**

**Chapter 1**

The wide stone corridor rumbled underfoot, causing a trickle of small rocks from the ceiling in some places, a burst of cloudy dust in others. Ancient walls displayed what were once expertly crafted symbols from floor to ceiling. The worn markings had cracked and split over the years, the meanings now indecipherable to all but the most dedicated archeologists. In these dark days, most travelers at these depths underground had no interest in the history of the Labyrinth's original occupants.

A young Celt Warden sat on what she discerned to be a useful pile of rubble, the remains of a fallen statue older than her ancestors. Her recently acquired scale armor still felt weighty and ungainly on her slight frame. A bright sword hung sheathed on her belt and a green arcanite shield lay at her feet as she rested her weary head against the artfully crafted wall.

Eilidh closed her eyes and tried to relax her shoulders, overly tense from supporting the heft of her new protective wear. The hauberk had only a few scratches and dents from the previous owner, but the chest piece was still not appealing to the eye. Her boyfriend had given it to her as a gift the previous week, gleeful to be providing such a fancy gift to his beloved.

The young woman had smiled and accepted the gift graciously, as any upstanding young lady would, at least in the first couple of months of a relationship. Inwardly she balked at the grotesque display of a Minotaur's head etched in crude relief in the center of the piece of armor. Obviously Ruaidhri had killed a small Minotaur, possibly a female youth, in the Labyrinth and robbed the body.

"Beggars can't be choosers," her mother had said, just glad to finally have her daughter out of the family's small house. Eilidh had thought the old woman had been talking about the ugly armor, but the sentiment went far deeper than the naïve young woman could see.

Behind her resting head, the sound of Ruaidhri's mallet resonated along the wall. A cry of delight indicated yet another conquest. Eilidh loved this young Champion that she had met only months ago. It felt like they were destined for each other: the amazing fighter and his lovely companion.

She smiled and stiffly stood up, anxious to see the result of Ruaidhri's latest fight. A look at her chest reminded her of just how hideous the armor was, but functionally it was far superior to the reinforced chest piece that it replaced. Yes, it was heavier, but that meant it would offer more protection. Right?

Her father told her not to worry about the scale sagging on her frame. He had promised that if she turned out anything like her mother, finding any clothing too large would be a difficult task. A slap to the back of the head had caused a raucous laughter from her older brothers. They fought in the realm wars frequently, so she did not see them nearly enough. They still had not even met Ruaidhri yet, but they were not too happy that she spent her time with a man who did not spend his time defending the realm of Hibernia.

"He's teaching me how to fight. That's something neither of you ever took the time to do!" she had retorted angrily before stomping off outside. As a Warden, spending time in nature always soothed her soul.

Unfortunately, she had spent much of her time recently in the damp tunnels of the Labyrinth of the Minotaur. The natural life force that she absorbed from the sunlit fields and dense forests of Hibernia had started to wane, slowly affecting her usually spritely demeanor. But she was with the love of her life, and that mattered most.

The dismembered carcasses of two cave spiders the size of wolfhounds lay sprawled on the tunnel floor. Ruaidhri stood over them, grinning like a small boy through streams of sweat emanating from under his shiny helmet. Eilidh's heart leapt at the sight of him. He was so amazing. What a strong man! Not one, but two spiders at once! She could not dream of achieving that level of valor.

Valor was everything to a Champion, so of course Ruaidhri had plenty of it.

"It's your turn again, sweetheart," he called to her.

Eilidh did not know what she would do without his constant moral encouragement. She certainly did not get any support from her family, so she would probably be a mere housewife instead of a Warden-in-training if not for Ruaidhri. Having said that, the idea of staying at home and taking care of this man did sound nice.

The Warden quickly shook away that notion. The housewife of such an active fighter could never rest easy, always worrying about the fate of her husband. No, it was far better to train as a Warden in order to support and help Ruaidhri. After all, he was standing inside of her protective aura while fighting these spiders. She took quiet gratification for her role in his success.

"Okay, Ruaidhri," she replied cautiously as she unsheathed the cheap blade that she had stolen from a werewolf in the Coruscating Mines a couple of months ago. The blade had been sharpened by a smith recently, but she could tell it was time to revisit the craftsman again for repairs.

The tense moments before a fight always terrified Eilidh, no matter how many times Ruaidhri coached her through them. She had defeated many monsters during her combat training with Ruaidhri, but she knew that her love chose targets far easier than ones he would choose for himself. Eilidh appreciated this. He was so patient with her, so understanding that a Warden of her level could not vanquish the same foes as a mighty Champion.

Having Ruaidhri at her back gave Eilidh a small boost of confidence as she inched her way down the narrowing tunnel. Magical torches placed at intervals of approximately twenty yards illuminated her path while casting eerie, flickering shadows all around her. In fact, her own shadow bounced before her in a spastically unnatural dance.

"Eilidh, keep your eyes up. You won't know what is ahead if you stare at your feet."

Now at full attention, Eilidh pressed on, faster now, her shield and sword feeling lighter as the adrenaline coursed through her veins. She focused on the more positive aspects of combat as a Warden. Ruaidhri had explained that although she was weaker than he, with time she would be able to swing her sword tirelessly, unrelentingly, fearlessly. These words echoed in her head now as she heard a cave spider snarl in the gloomy shadows between two of the torch lights.

She charged the sound, shield held just high enough in front of her that she could see over the top, already bracing for the large spider leaping at her.

Then she paused suddenly, stopping in her tracks. Ruaidhri watched her, detached, performing the role of coach, observing her actions.

The thought that brought her to a halt now filled her mind.

_Cave spiders don't snarl!_

The large Minotaur roared, charging at Eilidh from a hidden side tunnel cut into the shadowy section of the wall. The monster stood taller than any man, with shoulders more than double the width of Eilidh's. The oversized humanoid body supported a giant bull head, complete with ceremonial nose ring and flared nostrils. A fearsome two-handed hammer appeared in the firelight, careening towards the Warden's head. Before Eilidh could even raise her shield in defense, the mighty hammer rebounded off of Eilidh's blade-turn aura, the trademark of all Wardens.

Now staggering back to the wall, the Minotaur looked up in shock at this small human who had magically deflected his tremendous blow. Eilidh failed to capitalize on his lack of balance, still trying to renew her bubble-like aura. Ruaidhri said this process would become second nature with time, that she would be able to protect multiple nearby friends without a second thought.

But in the present, Eilidh's fear battled with her concentration. The Minotaur rushed her again, crashing its hammer off of her shield, violently throwing her small form towards the tunnel wall. She took the impact with her shoulder, causing a jolting pain across her back. Now down on one knee, she did not even see the Minotaur's next strike bearing down on her.

The blade-turn surrounded her once more, deflecting the blow, but fatiguing the young woman even more in the process. The realization that this fight was far more difficult than any she had ever encountered started to sink in. Why didn't Ruaidhri help her?

Obviously he knew that she could win alone.

With a burst of strength from her legs, Eilidh leapt at the recoiling Minotaur and slammed her shield into its exposed gut. The large beast banged against the opposite tunnel wall in a daze. Eilidh rushed forward, blade drawn back. Her foe's eyesight steadied in time to see the Celt's nicked sword drive solidly into its throat, just above its dirty breastplate, pinning the thick neck against the wall.

The gush of blood spewed out in a red stream above Eilidh's head, leaving a splatter on her lowered helmet. It had sunk forward on her forehead during her final thrust. The pair stood frozen in time. The bull-like creature's life drained slowly from its ruptured neck as Eilidh held the sword in place, staring at the ground, not wanting to see the damage.

"Finish it quickly, Eilidh," said the voice of reason beside her.

Knowing the meaning of the words, Eilidh twisted the sword in the beast's throat and withdrew it quickly, stepping to the side to avoid the teetering Minotaur. It collapsed in the middle of the hallway, facedown, blood pooling around its head.

Eilidh also collapsed, falling onto her backside clumsily. Shield and sword dropped to the stone floor. Her head hung low, her whole body momentarily exhausted. In the depths of the Earth it seemed like her energy regenerated far slower than out in the forests near her home, but she could already feel her strength returning.

Ruaidhri's hand rested on her shoulder as he crouched next to her.

"That is the way that we kill, my love. They should not suffer more than necessary. This is their home and they will defend it against us."

Eilidh nodded then looked up at her companion.

"I could not have done that without you, Ruaidhri."

He smiled broadly. "I did nothing to aid you, Eilidh. You did that alone."

She shook her head. "That is not what I mean. Your encouragement, your confidence in me. These things won that fight."

Ruaidhri helped her to her feet and gave her as close a hug as their armor allowed. "Whatever it takes. I must tell you, sweetheart. That was amazing. You have the spirit of a Champion in you."

Eilidh pushed back and winked, saying, "Not yet, I don't."

Ruaidhri blushed at this, as any good Champion should.

"Oh, I didn't mean to embarrass you, my love," Eilidh said, reinstating their hug.

Her fighting partner withdrew from her, uneasy. Eilidh cursed herself inwardly for being so forward. Ruaidhri was not some promiscuous Valewalker; he was a Champion of the realm. They held themselves to a much higher standard than she had just implied. Now it was her turn to blush.

"Let's continue the training, Eilidh," Ruaidhri said, moving down the passageway.

Eilidh stood there, still as a statue, mortally embarrassed at her faux pas, so consumed with her own thoughts that she did not notice the increasing rumble under her feet and in the walls around her. The first of the ceiling bricks had started their descent to the floor when Eilidh snapped out of her trance, in time to see Ruaidhri turning back to her, a look of concern spreading rapidly across his face.

The trickle of falling rocks grew into a torrent before either Celt had taken more than two steps towards each other. The ground rocked violently enough to throw Eilidh from one wall to the other, never quite able to regain her balance. She crashed to the floor and tried in vain to get back up as the stones continued to fill the void before her.

As the floor settled, Eilidh surged to her feet and, to her dismay, observed a solid rock wall where a clear view of her love had just been. The Labyrinthine tunnels were difficult enough to traverse without impromptu blockades. She could only hope that he was not under this immense, immovable pile of rubble.

She placed both hands on the large stones and cried, "Ruaidhri!"

No response.

Eilidh looked around feverishly, panic rising, grim realization setting in.

She did not know the way out.

**Chapter 2**

With the dust still settling around the cave-in, light from the few remaining lit torches created an eerie, powdery aura throughout the hallway. With such limited visibility, Eilidh could barely even make out the body of the fallen Minotaur just a few yards in front of her. The ground trembled slightly again, but this time just in aftershock. The falling particles of debris swirled in response.

Stepping carefully through the orange-lit dust clouds, Eilidh focused on the task at hand and not on the plight of her situation. She had to find another way to Ruaidhri. Surely he was seeking a path to her also. In fact, she knew that was precisely what her brave Ruaidhri would be doing, so she needed to return the favor.

A sharp and sudden inhalation of breath caught Eilidh by surprise, reminding her that she had been holding her breath in panic. The dirty air clogged her throat and caused a small coughing fit that echoed loudly in the dim tunnel. The dust fled from her face as she coughed out its brethren.

At least the Minotaurs will know someone is still alive in here, Eilidh thought to herself, trying to find some humor in her predicament.

Traversing the unstable hallway proved precarious. With each careful step, the chance of finding a weak spot in the floor always loomed. On more than one occasion, Eilidh's heavy boot cracked a floor tile, causing her heart rate to soar instantly. One wrong move could spell death for her, could plummet her fragile body through the tunnel floor, into a deep abyss formed by the quake.

"Optimism would be nice at a time like this," she muttered as she stepped over a decent-sized fissure in the ground.

At the end of the hallway, Eilidh faced her first decision. Did she need to go left or right?

Ruaidhri had led her all the way down, so she admittedly had not paid nearly enough attention to their constant twists and turns through the Labyrinth's maze-like tunnel system. Both of her options looked very similar and offered no hints as to their identity. Eilidh moved a little ways down each hallway and looked back towards the entrance to the tunnel where the cave-in had occurred.

A missing wall tile sparked a vivid memory within her subconscious. Yes, she had noticed that missing tile because it disrupted a grim picture of a Minotaur sacrificing an unlucky human over a flaming pyre. Not exactly what she would consider a work of art, but the image had etched itself into her brain well enough. Hope welled up within her. She would find a way out of this maze, as long as her memory stayed sharp.

She stopped in her tracks.

"Find a way out?" she asked to no one in particular. "A way out? No, I have to find Ruaidhri!"

Already Eilidh had lost sight of her true mission. She had to find her love and not just selfishly save herself. The young Warden chastised herself with a scowl, staring down at her feet, her cheeks reddening with an embarrassment displayed only for herself. She felt as if her face glowed brightly enough to imbue a crimson reflection on the floor before her.

The red shadow before her feet slowly separated in front of her, half moving to the right and half moving to the left. Eilidh tilted her head curiously, embarrassment forgotten. What was this?

Eilidh knelt and reached out a hand to the rightmost half of the shifting red glow. The color continued its slow path to the edge of the floor and started to ascend the wall at a slow creep. When her hand touched the patch of crimson, a dark shadow from her right hand stretched out to the left.

She froze, eyes each as wide as a hunter's moon.

The source of the red light was behind her.

As if reading her mind, the red glow rapidly shot up the wall and then began a quick downward descent as Eilidh twisted around to see a burly Norseman bringing down a red flaming sword towards her head. An enemy of the realm of Hibernia had snuck up behind her while she pouted. Now her moment of self-pity would cost her everything that she had. Instinctively she reached out a hand and closed her eyes, praying for a fast release from this life, foregoing all of her training.

"I'm sorry, Ruaidhri," she whispered.

Eilidh opened her eyes, befuddled to still have that ability.

The Norseman was running away, chasing after his giant sword as it clattered loudly down the dim tunnel.

Of course! Her blade-turn. Ruaidhri had been correct. Eilidh had not even thought about producing the protective bubble around herself, and yet obviously she had summoned the aura automatically as a defense mechanism. The Norseman's wicked blade had rebounded off of Eilidh's bubble with enough force to wrench it from his hands.

The Warden clambered to her feet and drew her cheap sword, its weight giving her mind some peace. This Norseman obviously had less experience in fighting than Eilidh. She had not dropped a weapon in over a month! The thought brought a grin to her face.

She rushed down the tunnel after what she suspected must be a Shadowblade of Midgard. Those assassins moved with such stealth that a Warden like Eilidh would never hear them coming. The man's choice in weaponry had given him away at the last minute, allowing Eilidh to subconsciously summon her defenses.

Now the Hibernian's confident footsteps alerted the Shadowblade, who had bent down to retrieve his wayward sword. The assassin leered at the approaching Celt and then disappeared before Eilidh's eyes. She ground to a halt and slowly walked backwards in the direction she had come from, bracing herself, readying her shield.

Ruaidhri had told her that all assassins were masters of the stealthy arts. They used extreme concentration to blend in with their surroundings, which explained why some were more adept at hiding and sneaking than others. He had mentioned that they move slower than normal while magically hidden, probably about as fast as Eilidh could walk backwards. She could not allow the assassin to get behind her, allowing him an easy target.

Some of the elite assassins could stay hidden even while standing one foot in front of a soldier like Eilidh. As the blurry shadowy shape of a tall man materialized a couple of feet in front of Eilidh, she thanked her lucky stars that this man had not mastered his art quite yet. She rushed forward, leading with her shield. The overly confident Norseman, caught off guard, took the full brunt of the Warden's large shield right in the face.

The Norseman lost his balance as his stealth skills completely failed him. Now in plain sight, the man reached up a hand to his broken nose, paying far too much attention to the damage done and not enough attention to the damage yet to come. Eilidh raised her shield and lunged at him once more, making solid contact with his unguarded torso.

The pair toppled to the floor, with Eilidh straddling the Norseman's waist as the man tried in vain to gain any leverage to swing his oversized glowing sword. Despite her foe's vigorous twisting and yells of rage, the moments passed fluidly and ethereally for Eilidh. Maintaining her powerful position seemed effortless as she drew back her sword and stared into the blood soaked face.

The writhing fury beneath her stopped as the Norseman's eyes accepted the inevitable. Not known for brute strength, the agile Shadowblade had been overcome by a small female Celt. Eilidh drove her blade straight through the novice assassin's throat as he stretched out an arm in protest, mouth gaping in dispute.

Blood pooled in his throat, spilled over the corners of his open mouth as his head wrenched back in momentary agony. Remembering Ruaidhri's words, Eilidh turned the blade sharply and withdrew her weapon, leaving a ragged hole, the man's life streaming forth. After a single drawn out convulsion, her foe's body flopped lifelessly and remained still. His eyes stared horribly into nothingness.

Eilidh had never killed an enemy of the realm. She had slain demons, wild animals, and bandits within her own lands, but never a citizen of Midgard or Albion. Now a Norseman of Midgard lay dead at her hands. She had spilled the blood of one of the Viking races.

And with this step she had become a defender of the realm, just like her two older brothers. The calm sensation in her bones gave way to a powerful rush of adrenaline. Her hands shook so much that she had a difficult time cleaning her sword on the Norseman's brown cloak. Without anyone to tell her otherwise, this seemed like the most logical way to clean her soiled weapon.

The exhilaration thrilled the young Celt. Never before had she felt so alive. This kill had purpose, it had meaning. This man had tried to kill her in the spirit of hate that drove his people to such violence, but she had defended herself impassively, totally detached. This was a just kill.

She beamed with pride and collected herself once more, ready to take on the world.

This foe had been a novice like herself, and she had dispatched him handily, but the next opponent could be far fiercer. Her smile faded and a grim resolution crossed her pale face. Too much time in the underground reaches of the Labyrinth had faded her skin's sun-kissed hue. She deeply longed for the green grasses of the surface, but her mission in the depths required completion.

She had to find Ruaidhri.

Sword drawn and shield at the ready, Eilidh strode with purpose, navigating the intricately carved tunnels with superhuman clarity. The adrenaline charged blood coursing through her whole being kept her mind sharp and her wits on edge. Two more Minotaurs fell to her blade, each more easily than the last. The Warden could feel her strength growing with each step in the dark recesses.

Eilidh stopped at the entrance of a dark tunnel. Her sense of direction indicated that she needed to head this way. She could feel that Ruaidhri lay beyond the utter darkness of the unlit passageway. Fear tried to edge its way into her mind, but sheer determination and desire forced the fright out. Eilidh grabbed one of the torches off of the wall of the tunnel she had just traversed and held it in her left hand, having mounted her shield on her back for the time being. The torch felt light in her grip compared to the mass of her shield, but the lack of protection left Eilidh feeling almost unbearably vulnerable.

Her resolve took over. She marched into the sheer darkness, torch leading the way, sword at the ready to offer a swift conclusion to any disagreements. Despite the blackness around her, the Warden's feet told her that the tunnel angled down farther into the Island of Agramon, the isle that lay atop the Labyrinth of the Minotaur. The silence loomed and pounded inside her head as she forced herself on, with a stony gaze that looked frightful in the flickering torch light.

The sound of a boot scuffing the ground and a tiny pebble skittering across the tunnel floor beside her foot told Eilidh everything she needed to know.

She was not alone.

**Chapter 3**

The first arrow sailed towards Eilidh's back and ricocheted harmlessly off of her pulsing blade-turn. Before she could even think of summoning another magical shield, a second arrow slammed into her physical shield, still mounted firmly to her back. The impact knocked the breath from her, pitching her forward onto one knee and throwing the torch from her grasp.

Still gasping for precious air, Eilidh furiously pulled at her shield, trying to dislodge it. It would not budge.

That second arrow must have pinned the shield to my armor, Eilidh realized with horror.

Her soul's dismay intensified when Eilidh caught a glimpse of her helm lying on the ground next to the fallen torch. There was no time to retrieve it! She had to take the offensive quickly.

A third arrow rebounded off of a freshly summoned blade-turn as Eilidh rose and rushed at her shadowy enemy. With the light of the torch now lying behind her, Eilidh's own long shadow blocked her view of the assailant. Out of the darkness, pain erupted in Eilidh's left arm as an arrow found its mark, knocking the poor girl off balance.

The pain soared to heights that Eilidh had never thought imaginable. The simple task of running became arduous to the point of hopelessness. The injured Warden stumbled forward, still seeking the enemy ahead. Yet another arrow appeared from the gloom, missing Eilidh's cheek by a fraction of an inch, sailing through her exposed red hair like a cool breeze. The missile's flights scratched at her ear on their way past.

The archer strode towards Eilidh, confident that the Warden had been sufficiently weakened. In truth, Eilidh looked miserable, leaning against the wall, breathing deeply, agony wrenching her lifeless arm. The enemy's lapse in professionalism cleared Eilidh's mind. The archer should have finished her off from a safe distance when they had the chance. The arrogant bastard had unwittingly just given Eilidh a chance to recover.

The Warden dropped her sword to the ground with a clank. She reached up and yanked out the arrow from her arm in one sudden motion, the excruciating pain causing her eyesight to fail momentarily. Her mind fought against the physical distress and released a calming sensation in defense. Eilidh felt oddly at peace.

Closing her eyes softly, Eilidh reached down through her feet into the ground they stood on, calling forth the Earth's healing powers. The living Earth below and around her responded quickly, flowing through the Warden's body like the warmth of a good bath. Eilidh chanted the words to release the magical healing power through her right hand and gently touched her wounded arm.

The transformation took less than a second. The wounded girl became a fully energized fighting machine in an instant. Eilidh grabbed her sword off the ground and struck out at the cocky archer who now stood within her reach. The glint of two blades materialized from the darkness, illuminated by the torch down the hallway. The wicked orange reflected off of the swift steel, but the suddenness of Eilidh's attack had obviously caught her foe by surprise. The archer's weapons failed to catch Eilidh's sword in time, yet her blade infuriatingly missed its desired target in a sloppy uppercut motion.

Fortunately, Eilidh's fist, still wrapped around the sword, caught the archer directly under the chin. The gut wrenching sound of shattering teeth resounded in the quiet tunnel, and a high-pitched keening wail filled the air with the sound of pure suffering as the archer's mouth fell open once more. The impact knocked the poor archer's blades from their hands as they fell forward onto both knees, groping futilely at their destroyed mouth.

In the heat of the moment, Eilidh drove an armored punch into the side of the archer's head, sending a crimson spray of fragmented teeth to the ground. The emotional release of vengeance tingled in her bones, but Eilidh did not think she should beat down a defeated opponent like she would a wild dog. It did not seem right.

Eilidh stood above the fallen adversary, the blunt sword pointed at the downcast head.

And she hesitated. What was she supposed to do? Execute the enemy? Leave them to wallow in their anguish? Provide a healing spell to ease their suffering?

"Where are you, Ruaidhri?" she moped quietly.

The complexity of the decision increased tenfold when the archer's battered face finally lifted to Eilidh's.

An Elf!

"Wha—? What are—?" Eilidh stammered, now taking a few steps back.

Why would an Elf ever ambush an ally such as a Celt?

Confusion fell victim to misguided understanding.

Obviously this Hibernian sister of hers had mistaken Eilidh for an enemy. Eilidh could see how that mistake could happen, especially with a novice Ranger, which she concluded the archer must be. Only Rangers used a bow so proficiently in the realm of Hibernia.

But upon closer inspection of the Elf's armor, Eilidh saw that she held the rank of Silver Hand. But that was impossible.

How could such a high ranking Ranger make such an error?

The realization hurt Eilidh's fragile heart.

There was no error.

Fiery anger replaced all other emotions.

"Why did you attack me, Elf?" she yelled.

Eilidh approached, sword now directed at the Ranger's exposed throat, the tip of the sword pushing on the pale skin, but not breaking it. Blood dripped from the Elf's open mouth. The sight of the broken teeth turned Eilidh's stomach, but her fury remained in control.

"I could've killed you!"

Upon further reflection, Eilidh realized that the Elf could easily have killed her, too.

But what happened next?

Something in the Elf's clear blue eyes changed. The penetrating stare had picked up on Eilidh's indecision, her failure to act. Resolution filled those burning eyes. The Elf slowly stood up, Eilidh's sword still held uneasily against the Ranger's throat. The Celt gave up at least six inches in height to the slender Elf, but that physical difference did not concern Eilidh.

Her only concern was what this Elf was thinking. Why did she have to stand up? Did she desire Eilidh's assistance in finding the release of death?

"How can I kill an ally, Ruaidhri? Even one who attacked me first," Eilidh whispered, so unsure of herself.

Her outstretched arm started to twinge with exertion from holding up the sword. She did not know how much longer she could face this standoff, emotionally or physically. The overwhelming stress filled her mind with doubt.

Fatigued to failure, the sword arm dropped and the Elf quickly grabbed at the weapon. Survival instincts kicked in for both fighters as the Elf's hands gripped Eilidh's wrist. The Warden twisted her arm back and forth, trying to break the vice-like grip of the Elf, but the taller female held on for dear life. Knowing the fight was over if she lost her sword, Eilidh gripped it with all her might.

Thoughts of why an Elf would attack a Celt slipped far into the back of Eilidh's mind as she wrestled with her opponent. The Elf drove into Eilidh suddenly, forcing the small woman up against the tunnel wall, where she smacked the back of her head. Stars bloomed before her eyes, obscuring her view of the Ranger. Not knowing what else to do, Eilidh brought her knee up hard between the Elf's legs. The result of this attack on a man would have been more effective, but the Elf loosened her grip on Eilidh's wrist just enough for Eilidh to break free.

In one clumsy movement, Eilidh grabbed the hilt with both hands and drove the bottom of the sword's handle down onto the Elf's head.

The Ranger crumpled wordlessly. Eilidh breathed hard, hands on knees. The Ranger lay motionless, but Eilidh did not have the heart to check for a pulse. She just wanted to leave. If she had just killed a realm mate, she did not want to know about it.

Eilidh staggered towards the dimming torch and her helm, considered pressing on down into the pitch black tunnel, but then thought the better of it. The fierce struggle had left her feeling weak and drained of energy, and her growling stomach reminded her that she had not eaten all day. She would certainly need sustenance to continue down through the dangerous tunnels.

I can't survive another attack like this, she thought hopelessly, still breathing hard. I need to find Ruaidhri, but I can't do it alone.

She resolved to head back up to the Labyrinth entrance, to find some allies in her journey to find Ruaidhri. Eilidh felt bad that Ruaidhri would still be down there, searching tirelessly for her when she was fearfully running away to the surface, but what else could she do?

Surely it is better that I live to find him later than to get myself killed on my quest?

Before leaving the downed Elf, Eilidh managed to remove the arrow and shield from her back. In the firelight she could see the deep scar that the arrow had etched into her shield. The next time she saw one of her brothers, they would have to fix it for her. She smiled as she thought about how impressed they would both be with her stories of valor and bravery. Finally, she had acted in a way that she could find pride in.

She worked her way quickly through the maze of the Labyrinth, seeking the exit. The deserted corridors helped speed her progress. While jogging through yet another tunnel, she thought about how her brothers had never encouraged her in her desire to become a Warden. They both thought that she would fail miserably. How she had proved them wrong!

Of course, here she was, running away from her mission.

As she left the depths of the Labyrinth behind, Ruaidhri could be dead or dying, screaming for Eilidh to find and help him. The image brought a tear to Eilidh's eye, but there was no other option. She had to leave in order to return stronger, bolstered with help from friendly allies.

"Oh, Ruaidhri, please don't die," Eilidh prayed fervently.

She repeated the chant over and over, the repetition easing her mind's frantic worry. The mantra stopped when a fiery red tuft of hair shot across the tunnel intersection ahead of her.

Could it be?

"Ruaidhri!" she yelled.

Eilidh ran down the gloomy tunnel faster than she had ever thought possible. The air itself seemed to assist her, pushing her forward with supernatural speed. Rounding each corner brought a new pang of disappointment as her red-headed companion continued to evade her. Did he even know she was chasing him?

The sound of stamping hooves and collective snorting greeted Eilidh around one brightly lit corner. There she stood in great contrast to her surroundings, a small Celt in a large hallway. At least ten giant Minotaurs now faced her, beating the ground and walls with their hammers, building up an unstoppable rage. Their eyes burned ferociously, murderous intent blatantly apparent.

Frozen in time and space, Eilidh could swear that she saw plumes of smoke flowing from the angered nostrils. The group of bullish creatures now moved as one, stampeding towards the terrified woman.

Terror gave way to common sense as she turned on her heels and galloped back through the tunnels. Even with fear driving her feet onwards, Eilidh's mind filled with visions of the Minotaurs catching her. Seeing her small body stomped to a bloody pulp forced her legs to pump harder. The deep snarling behind her invaded her body, more of a feeling than a sound. The ground under her feet rumbled under the hooves of the gaining stampede.

In desperation, Eilidh prayed aloud for her legs to move faster. And that they did. The feeling at once confused and elated Eilidh. The power flowing through her legs felt natural, but she could not discern its origin. At that particular moment, she could not care less where the encouragement came from.

The tunnels passed by in a flurry and the irritated Minotaurs reluctantly gave up their pursuit. Eilidh did not give up on her flight. She felt far more invigorated than ever before. Gravity struggled to keep her tethered to the ground as she flew down one tunnel after another.

The familiar sounds of Hibernians fighting Minotaurs floated down a tunnel towards her. Eilidh slowed down to a careful walk. On one hand, she yearned for friendly faces to assist in her mission, but on the other hand, a friendly face had just shot her in the back. The Warden pulled up short at the intersection from where the cries and roars of battle resounded.

Did she dare step into the light, into the open for the Hibernians to see? What if they no longer honored their allegiance to the Celtic king? Had the Elves deserted man? The unanswerable questions spiraled through her mind, adding and multiplying endlessly.

"Ruaidhri, I need you," she whispered.

**Chapter 4**

"Brian, stop swinging those swords like floppy, wet fish!"

Liam, a trainer for those seeking mastery in the ways of blades, watched in horror as his new apprentice attempted to fend off a medium-sized cave spider in the Labyrinth of the Minotaur. Blademasters trained in the ways of fighting with a weapon in each hand, but Brian might as well have been poking at the spider with a pointy stick.

"Brian, you are trying to kill it, not trim its hair. Keep your wrists loose, but swing those arms with some machismo," Liam instructed, starting to get exasperated with the young Firbolg.

In general, Firbolgs made fantastic Blademasters, so Liam had been overjoyed to receive one as a student, finally. Brian was well over seven feet tall and had broad shoulders that a Celt like Liam would love to have. At first glance, this trainee represented all of the physical traits that formed one of the great Blademasters, the greats who killed seemingly limitless numbers of enemies with deft strokes of their swords and an air of well-earned self-confidence. The teacher of such a powerful Blademaster would surely receive endless accolades and praise, quickly moving into the position of Master Trainer. Liam had salivated at the opportunity.

Unfortunately, Liam's overhyped hopes faced a grim realization: Brian could not fight his way out of a damp wicker basket. He would have had better luck just kicking the spider than with flailing his arms around with all the grace and coordination of a three year old, one-legged girl learning how to dance. Liam had hoped the trip out to the Labyrinth would excite and inspire his young follower into showing some hidden talent for extreme greatness, but the journey had proved fruitless so far.

And, mercifully, the fight ended. The odds were good that swinging two large swords at a target long enough would eventually result in hitting and killing that target. When the target was a mostly decrepit and harmless spider, the odds increased dramatically for most people, but apparently not for poor Brian.

Liam's dreams of grandeur had all but slipped away.

One look at the Firbolg told Liam that reality had started to attack Brian's self-confidence. The slump of the gigantic shoulders, the sadness on his wide face (Firbolgs were not known as a particularly happy race, but Brian looked that much sadder), and Brian's words gave it all away.

"Maybe I am not a Blademaster," he whined with the trademark deep, bass voice.

"With that kind of attitude you certainly are not," Liam stated with perfectly choreographed hand gestures.

Brian's whole body seemed to slump at these words from his own teacher.

"Yet," Liam added, marveling at his own timing.

The Firbolg's face lifted, his large eyes meeting Liam's.

"You have all the makings of a Blademaster, Brian, but you have got to find that swashbuckling, adventurous spirit within you!" Liam declared.

For added emphasis, Liam bounded towards the tunnel wall and leapt into the air, performing a series of jumps and spins off of the wall.

"We are a proud class of Hibernian's guardians, some might say too proud, but I say 'too proud' does not exist!"

As with all of Liam's intense displays of physical prowess, Brian looked thoroughly impressed.

As he should be! Liam thought to himself in the middle of an inverted spin.

Liam stuck the landing with a flourish and a flashy smile, only to see his trainee staring down towards the opposite end of the tunnel. The smile disintegrated. Why wasn't this peon worshipping his grand feats of agility?

"What's so interesting, Brian?" he asked politely. A gallant Blademaster was always polite.

"Um… I think some Lurikeens are in trouble down there," Brian said, a little unsure of himself. "Can't you hear it?" he added cautiously.

Despite hearing nothing of the sort, Liam could not help himself.

"Of course! Let us save the day, young one," he exclaimed, charging in the supposed direction of the supposed altercation.

The startled cries of a pair of Lurikeens did indeed meet Liam's apparently inferior ears about halfway down the tunnel. So the student did have at least some small advantage over the teacher. Interesting, but of course superb hearing did nothing to increase proficiency with a pair of sharpened blades of death. That much was painfully apparent each time Brian tried to clobber a monster.

The leprechaun-like Lurikeens shrieked and danced around a wild pack of adolescent cave spiders that were intent on devouring the diminutive humanoids. Liam immediately noticed that both screaming 'Keens wielded two swords, but he used the word 'wielded' loosely. These were no Blademasters. No, these were merely Rangers, far inferior to the Blademaster in weapon skill, and also apparently about as brave as the dancing three year old girl aforementioned.

In Liam's mind, one of the trademarks of any good melee fighter involved the correct and appropriate use of catchphrases. For example, to mark the occasion of charging into battle, Liam had coined the phrase, "I'm flyin' in!" Brian had not reached the stage in his training yet where he deserved the use of such exclamations of intent, at least, not in Liam's estimations. Of course, Liam already had a collection of suggestions for Brian to use, such as, "I'm going deep!" Yes, that was a solid suggestion.

With his well-practiced war cry and a totally unnecessary burst of speed, Liam roared through the cave spiders, hacking and slashing in a blur of motion usually reserved for Celts running to the outhouse after a close encounter with Firbolg cuisine. Within seconds, a gory mess of twitching spider remains lay strewn across the tunnel floor, walls, and ceiling. The two blood-splattered Lurikeens stood in what Liam assumed must be complete and unadulterated awe.

Without waiting for the two to snap out of their worshipful trance, Liam sheathed one of his shiny blades and used the other to remove a few intact spider legs to sell to the witches back on the Hibernian mainland. Those crazy old hags were always looking for such ingredients to stir into those foul-smelling (and tasting) stews of theirs.

A sharp object poked the crouching Celt in the buttocks. Liam turned to stare into the eyes of a bloodied and fuming Lurikeen. Their physical appearance always put a smile on Liam's face. They had such small and fragile bodies which were topped off with a disproportionately large head. Sitting on his haunches, Liam stood eye-to-eye with the diminutive Ranger.

"Just what in the bloody hell do you think you're doing, mate?" asked the scowling Lurikeen.

Confused, the noble Blademaster replied, "How do you do, Lurikeen? I am Liam and I am just collecting my fee."

The scowl turned furious.

"Your fee? Your fee for what exactly, mate?"

Liam did not have much experience chatting with Lurikeens, but he suspected that the Ranger did not mean "mate" in a literal sense, or in any positive sense for that matter. Confusing creature.

"For saving you and your companion, of course."

"You've lost the plot, you have!" exclaimed the Lurikeen. "You believe this, Gil? This bloke says he saved us. Like we needed savin'!"

"Aye, pile of shite that is, Bruce" added the second Lurikeen, Gil apparently.

The pair continued to babble in increasingly incomprehensible language that Liam recognized less and less. Coming from a noble birth had left the Blademaster a bit out of touch with commoners like these, but no matter what, the protocol was clear. If no reward was offered for services rendered, then no reward would be taken. Also, Liam had to remain honorable and polite, despite the Lurikeens' rudeness. Well, he suspected they were being rude. It was hard to tell anymore.

"Of course you are correct, little masters. We will be on our way now. Come on, Brian," he said, walking back the way they had come.

Liam could hear the continued verbal foray as he and Brian wandered off.

"Who is he calling 'little masters'? I have a good mind to brain that blockhead."

"Aye, right you are, Bruce."

"The pair on that guy, thinking he can steal from us!"

"Aye, can't believe it myself, Bruce."

Their ungrateful animosity perplexed Liam. Surely they should appreciate his help. As far as he had seen at the time, those spiders had held the upper hand against the outmatched and undersized Lurikeens. The feisty little Rangers certainly had heart, but they seemed to lack the necessary combat skills to succeed in battle. Despite having heart, the pair certainly lacked manners. A rescued person should always show their appreciation to the rescuer, preferably with money, but spider legs would also suffice. How would word of his altruistic exploits gain him fame if the recipients of his aid did not praise his name from the rooftops, or at least yell his name in the tunnels of the Minotaur Labyrinth?

"LIAM! HELP!"

The high-pitched scream piqued Liam's curiosity. Obviously a damsel in distress had heard of his grand accomplishments and in her darkest hour had called out his name through the tunnels. He stopped in the tunnel and looked around for connecting passageways. Now, where could she be?

"Liam, those Lurikeens are coming," Brian said.

The interruption broke Liam from his search for his endangered fair maiden. Irritated at his presumptuous student, he looked back down the tunnel and saw the pair of Rangers sprinting their big hearts out and screaming their little lungs out. So that at least explained the woman like squeals for help. Liam was sorely disappointed. He had not rescued a lady in a while and they always offered a reward, and not always in gold pieces.

Unfortunately Liam had no time to reminisce about his past female conquests. The diminutive Lurikeens ran with good reason. A hoard of armor-clad, bloodthirsty Minotaurs was stomping after them. Torchlight reflected off all of the shiny armor and weaponry as the bull-like creatures made up ground on the Rangers, whose tiny legs moved in a blur.

A less honorable Celt would have definitely yelled something along the lines of, "Wait, so now you need my help, Rangers?"

Liam just looked at Brian and smiled. Brian carefully smiled back, not sure what to think. Ah, what a treat the young Firbolg was in for. It was not every day that Liam encountered a mass of foes who would stress his fighting ability to its very limit.

"Watch and learn, my young apprentice," Liam announced, drawing both of his swords from the sheaths that protected the rest of the world from them.

Legs pumping with adrenaline-charged power, Liam charged directly towards his incoming victims, yelling, "I'm flyin' in!"

He leapt over the fleeing Lurikeens, one of whom may have said, "What the bloody hell?"

All but one of the Minotaurs slowed to a cautious canter at the fearless approach of the smiling Celt, a little unsure what to make of this heroic man, Liam was sure. Only one, obviously the leader, continued his stampede towards Liam. The beast brayed loudly and hefted a giant two-handed sword over its head. The large jagged blade did not faze Liam. He had fought larger and more jagged swords in his time.

The two combatants closed in and the Minotaur chief's sword plummeted to the ground on which Liam stood. The Celt gracefully evaded to the left and thrust a blade towards the Minotaur's exposed side. The sword slid off of the Minotaur's armor, indicating to Liam that this Minotaur was not the run-of-the-mill bull that he had fought in the past. Liam easily gave up at least one foot in height and one hundred and fifty pounds in weight to his furious adversary, whose raging red eyes now found their target.

The large sword moved sideways with amazing speed, performing a wicked cross-cut as Liam ducked and evaded once more. Parrying the blow seemed a bit out of the question considering the heft behind the weapon. As the Minotaur's blade caused a rush of air over his head, Liam looked up to see the bull's legs open before him. A crease in the enemy's armor exposed flesh on the inside thigh. Liam's sword found the spot, slicing through the relatively soft piece of hide down to the bone.

Without waiting for the Minotaur's cry of panic to reach his ears, Liam jumped straight up and grabbed the bull's gaudy nose ring with his left hand. Pulling down hard enough on the ring to keep his own feet floating off the ground, Liam sliced at the beast's leathery neck.

The blade slid right off, not even causing a nick in the tough skin. A shake from the Minotaur's head sent Liam sprawling to the floor. The Minotaur's sword swung above its head once more, ready to finish its dazed opponent. Liam looked up in a haze, now a little worried about the outcome of the fight. Victory had seemed assured, but now he had fallen behind.

Before the mighty sword could start its deadly descent, a pair of arrows ripped into the Minotaur's face, right between the eyes. The animal collapsed backwards immediately, a fountain of blood spraying the ceiling in a messy arc. Liam closed his eyes and leaned his head back, his nerves feeling a little shot by his brush with near-death.

"It's about time you moved your arse out of the way," declared a high voice behind Liam.

Liam rolled his eyes and thought to himself, "Such gentlemen."

But they had saved him, so did that make them even? Did he owe them anything? Surely not. The thought of owing anyone anything made Liam's head hurt.

He muttered, "Well this cannot get any worse."

A small herd of Minotaurs nearby seemed to believe otherwise.

**Chapter 5**

Life in the fire-lit Labyrinth tunnel stood still for a moment. The flickering light from the sporadically placed torches illuminated figures as stiff as statues. One body in particular lay more still than all of the others. In fact, the only movement around the recently killed Minotaur chieftain was the pulsating flow of blood still pouring from its broken face. After a brief pause in the action, chaos ensued.

Over his shoulder, Liam could see Bruce and Gil nock another arrow each. The ground trembled again and Liam's thoughts of the fight being won left in a hurry. Some races gave up fighting as soon as their leader died, but apparently the Minotaurs did not ascribe to that school of thought.

Liam flipped off his back and onto his feet as a torrent of arrows passed by his head, hurtling towards the incoming stampede. Snarls and grunts echoed off the walls of the tunnel as Liam spun through his assailants, slashing out at any exposed weaknesses. A few of the lesser beasts fell quickly to his strikes, but the larger breed's hide kept Liam's blade at bay.

The Minotaurs seemed to completely ignore the Rangers raining down pain upon them from a distance. These bulls had just watched their chief die and apparently blamed Liam for it, because they spun around him in a circle of furious and untamed violence. That suited the brave Blademaster just fine. He parried heroically, struck out forcefully, and then cocked his head to the side when he thought he heard a deep voice yell, "I'm flyin' in!"

He really hoped that he had misheard and that Brian was not joining the fray. More importantly, that had better not have been Brian using Liam's signature battle cry!

Now completely surrounded by thrashing Minotaurs, the dodging Celt found himself in the deep shadow of the stampede. His blades glowed in a faint red as they sliced through the darkness, piercing their targets over and over. His magical sword ripped into the arm of one beast, unleashing the blade's power in the form of a burning eruption of searing pain. The resulting flame burned out quickly, but the enemy toppled into one of its own, crashing both to the floor. Not one to wait for an invitation, Liam flipped forward and drove a blade into the throat of each bull, ending their brays for help.

Liam felt the shadow around him deepen. He turned to see a dark form flying across the tunnel towards him. The collision pinned Liam to the wall, winding him momentarily. He freed one of his arms and raised a sword, ready to impale his assailant, but then saw Brian's large head in the dim light.

"Brian! Get off me! I need to lay waste to these brigands!" Liam yelled, trying to wrestle his way out from underneath the large Firbolg.

With a deep grunt, Brian rolled out of the way and Liam stood, collecting himself. After a quick check that his chest plate still looked shiny and impressive in the torchlight of the tunnel, Liam put up his blades and rushed the few Minotaurs remaining on their feet. The closest beast rumbled towards Liam and abruptly crashed to the floor with a growl. Liam could see no less than fourteen arrows peppering the massive bull's back.

The last two enemies saw defeat and ran, stumbling over their fallen brothers in their haste. One dropped to a barrage of arrows from the Lurikeens and the other escaped into the gloom, braying loudly. As much as Liam felt good about his performance in the battle, he would definitely appreciate the survivor not rounding up all of his friends and returning any time soon. Liam was fairly certain that his armor was severely damaged in a few places and to be perfectly honest, he was exhausted.

Such an admission of fatigue did not come easily to the proud Blademaster. The tales of old told of his legendary predecessors handling similar fights without the help of two little archers. Of course, it was Liam's extraordinary courage that had produced the victory. The Rangers had run away from a fight that Liam had heartily embraced with gusto. As required, Liam struck a pose worthy of his triumph: hands on hips, elbows out, chest high, and one eyebrow arched up perfectly. He even thought about putting one of his boots on top of a fallen foe. Where was a sketch artist when he needed one? He made a note to hire an artist before his next expedition. Fame did not come to those who did not advertise.

"Oi, numpty!"

Disturbed from his celebration, Liam turned to the Lurikeen called Bruce (or was it Booze?) with an appropriately irritated look.

"Aye, you," continued the Ranger. "You're off in the clouds while your mate is lying here in a pile of his own guts. Shame on you!"

True enough, Brian lay on his side, where Liam had pushed him over, with a deep groove sliced into the armor covering his abdomen. The boy's eyes were closed, but not with the straining force of a mortally injured Firbolg. If not for the growing stream of red on the floor tiles, Liam would have sworn the boy was asleep. Gil crouched next to Brian, checking for a pulse.

"He's knocking on Death's door, Bruce," he reported gloomily.

Lurikeens fought angrily, spoke angrily, and drank angrily, but they had soft hearts for fallen realm mates. Even Liam could see the true sadness growing in both Rangers at the sight of the dying Firbolg that they had not even officially met. Liam had always found it strange that Lurikeens were among the few races of the world that had never mastered the healing arts.

Liam could not heal any more than the Rangers could, but he was a valiant fighter. Surely they did not expect him to be able to repair wounds and slay enemies by the dozen?

These distracting thoughts faded as panic set in. What if Brian really died? How would Liam tell Brian's parents? The boy was everything to them. How would Liam pay his rent? He had not had a student for more than a year (inexplicably) before Brian showed up, having been cast aside by all of the other trainers. The clumsy Firbolg had happily followed along with the soon-to-be world-renowned Liam, but now he would die in the dirty depths of the Minotaur Labyrinth.

It was a sad payment for the valor that Brian had finally shown in battle. Liam would never have guessed that the tall, muscular, and completely uncoordinated Firbolg actually had such bravery to charge a mad herd of Minotaurs. A smile spread across Liam's face at the thought. He alone had taken this boy that no one else could train. He alone had molded Brian into a true warrior, a true Blademaster.

"Have you lost the plot, mate?" demanded Bruce, poking the distant Liam in the thigh with his curved falcata. "Your boy is dying here! This is not a flippin' joke, Celt! You have to do something!"

Why did the Lurikeen have to be so insistent and confrontational all of the time? It was hardly the proper way to act, especially in the presence of a gentleman such as Liam. Not quite sure what to do next (Liam usually did the killing, not the reviving), Liam looked down the tunnel with his best thinker's pose.

And he saw a pale apparition appear from the gloom. Before he could help himself, a small scream squeaked out from his lips, his hand belatedly cutting off the sound. Fighting Minotaurs was one thing, but Liam had no desire to fight off a ghost. They were already dead and hence, unstoppable!

Both Lurikeens observed the Celt with confusion as he started to backpedal away from the latest player in the bizarre scene.

"Gil, what's his problem?" asked Bruce.

"I have no clue, Bruce."

To Liam's dismay, Bruce beckoned the ghost closer.

"Are you out of your mind, Lurikeen?" he snapped in a harsh whisper, not wanting to displease the ghastly apparition.

"Are you out of your mind, you prat?" replied Bruce. Then to the pale, armored ghost, Bruce said, "Hey, are you a naturalist?"

Now panic stricken, Liam said, "What difference does it make? It will devour all of our souls if we do not flee now!"

"Gil, I think he is now completely off his flippin' rocker."

"Aye, he's a complete nutter, so he is, Bruce"

Liam fought to hold back the redness of embarrassment from his face as the apparition drew closer. This was no ghost, just a very, very pale woman in some of the worst fitting (and looking) armor Liam had ever seen. Now the scene made sense to the previously and unnecessarily perplexed Blademaster.

The lady had been creeping cautiously down the tunnel, but now she started running, causing Liam to twitch involuntarily, despite knowing now that she was no ghost. Bruce shook his head.

"Flippin' ants in his pants, Gil."

"Aye, Bruce."

The woman knelt down over Brian and started the familiar chant that Liam had heard many times after a battle. Her hands started to glow with pure regenerative energy, the bluish light casting a long shadow behind her. The gaping wound sealed shut at her touch as the energy transferred from her healing hands to Brian's broken body. After three repetitions of this process, Liam started to wonder if she had appeared too late. The young woman had no instrument, like a Bard, and she had no pet following her, like a Druid. He deduced that she must be a Warden, which also meant that her healing powers were far from perfect. Also, judging from the tacky state of her appearance, Brian's life did not rest in the competent hands of an expert.

"Better to die gloriously in battle, than to live a peaceful life and die of old age," Liam said proudly.

Bruce shot a glance at him in response and Liam could see the little archer shaking, veritably twitching, all over. Had his profound phrase affected the Ranger that much? When the Ranger stomped towards him, Liam realized that perhaps he had misjudged. Perhaps the Lurikeen was actually seething and boiling over with rage.

"WHAT IS WRONG WI' YOUR HEID, MATE?" Bruce screamed at a shockingly high volume for such a small creature.

Liam frowned and refused to answer such a ridiculous question. There was nothing wrong with his head.

"You just don't get it do you, mate?" Bruce continued, but before he could add anymore to his diatribe, Brian coughed and sat up like a shot.

"Thank you, Celt," he said weakly, panting to catch his breath. Running away from Death could really take the wind out of a person.

The young lady blushed.

"You're welcome, but I need all of your help," she said. She stood up and faced the group. "My name is Eilidh. I came down here with my friend Ruaidhri and we got separated. You have to help me find him. Please."

"No thank you, miss," said Bruce. "Sadly, we have business at the surface to attend to."

Gil frowned slightly at his friend and then nodded in agreement.

The pair of Rangers now looked at Liam, waiting for his response. He examined the young woman. In the right light, she was actually very pretty. She had spent far too much time in the dark halls of the Labyrinth, but that was nothing some sunlight on the surface could not fix. Yes, she could be very beautiful if she had a few hearty meals and filled out a little. And she needed him. How could Liam possibly refuse such an offer from a potentially pretty girl? Although, he did wonder if this Ruaidhri was more than a friend. Well, that dalliance would not last long after this Eilidh girl had spent some quality time in the presence of a courageous Blademaster.

And to top it all, off-the-cuff adventuring always earned far greater notoriety than futilely educating a hopeless student. As far as Liam was concerned, his choice was as crystal clear as his gorgeous eyes.

"Of course I will take you and rescue your fallen friend," Liam said. "Lurikeens, as payment for my spectacular fighting services, I require that you take Brian back to the surface. He is of no use on such a quest, as we saw in that previous fight. And the pair of you are borderline useless, running scared at the first signs of a stampeding herd of Minotaurs."

Bruce and Gil looked at each other in disbelief. Liam saw their response and laughed heartily. Perhaps too heartily, but was there such a thing as having too much heart?

"Oh, come now, Rangers. Don't get all bent out of shape. You use two blades in an inferiorly similar fashion to a Blademaster, so perhaps you can give Brian a few pointers on your way out of the Labyrinth," Liam suggested.

He slapped Bruce on the back for good measure, showing the woman his good rapport with creatures big and small. After all, he had already established dominance and leadership by delegating Brian's training to the Lurikeens. Now he was showing his more personable side.

Bruce's face turned red in fury and Gil held the small archer at bay, whispering in his ear. Liam appreciated Gil protecting his friend from a hasty defeat at Liam's hand, should Bruce force a confrontation. The Lurikeen's anger seemed to fade.

"Okay, Celt. We'll take your boy off of your precious hands so that you can help your damsel in distress. But know this: he will learn more from us in an hour than he has learned from you in a month."

"I find that difficult to believe based upon your recent performances," Liam responded politely, smiling for effect.

Bruce ignored him. The pair of Rangers helped pull Brian to his unstable feet. Liam did not appreciate the Lurikeen's tone at all, especially not in front of a pretty lady. Brian had learned immense bravery, obviously all from Liam's instruction. A mere Ranger could not teach this trait. Even two Rangers could not, for that matter.

Brian, Bruce, and Gil started walking away from the new companions. Bruce said over his shoulder, "Miss, you'd be wise to keep an eye on this one. Don't let him get you killed."

Liam could hear Gil agree faintly, "Quite right, Bruce."

Eilidh turned to Liam with a look of concern. Liam now welcomed the challenge that the Lurikeen had set up for him. Now he was escorting a vulnerable damsel in distress who also did not trust in his supreme melee skills. In due time, he would prove himself a master of the swords and win her over. He felt impressed with his abilities just thinking about them.

"Well, let's be off then, shall we?" Liam said.

Eilidh nodded slowly. The pair wandered after the trio before them, but did not follow when the trio turned off of the main path. What nerve these short people had! Liam had ordered them to take Brian straight to the surface. Why on Earth were they heading in that direction?

Eilidh looked a little unsure.

"Um, the Rangers turned back there. We need to head towards the surface also to recruit more help. Do you know where you are going, Liam?"

Liam laughed, booming echoes off the walls.

"Of course, I do. Have no fear. They are the ones who have made the wrong turn."

Aren't they? He thought to himself. He quickly distracted himself from self-doubt by dismissing Eilidh's desire to find more adventurers. Liam the Blademaster could handle this small quest all on his own.

**Chapter 6**

What on Earth had she gotten herself into now? Here she was, a young, relatively inexperienced Warden of Hibernia, traipsing around in the dingy subterranean corridors of the dilapidated Labyrinth of the Minotaur with a man she had just met. A man that she suspected might actually be crazy.

"Eilidh, have I told you about the time when I saved two Rangers from an enraged herd of twenty Minotaurs?" Liam asked.

He had insisted on walking ahead of Eilidh, leading her nowhere in particular as far as she could tell. Every now and then he would call back to her over his shoulder to recount some tale of his bravery and courage. With each entry into his verbal journey of achievements, Eilidh lost more and more respect for his credibility. She started to wonder if the Rangers had in fact saved Liam in the fight that he now had referenced for the third time.

"You have told me about first saving the Rangers from a group of eight, and then twelve Minotaurs, Blademaster," she said with a roll of her eyes.

So now we are at twenty. Great.

The thought made her wonder bitterly why she had agreed to his help. Well, because no one else was around and the Rangers both had business elsewhere. The idiot kept bringing up the story of thirty minutes ago as if it was a historic and well-documented moment of fame for him. Eilidh prayed that Liam would run them into some more Hibernians to join their group. She did not think that she could handle much more of this man one-on-one.

Also, the one Ranger's warning still resounded loudly in her head. Don't let Liam get her killed. Ominous.

Ruaidhri spoke of great accomplishments, but Eilidh had seen him perform plenty of worthy feats to prove his valor. This Blademaster just spoke and spoke and spoke. What if he did not know how to fight at all?

"Please help me survive this man, Ruaidhri," she whispered quietly.

"What was that, Eilidh?" Liam called back.

How had he heard that?

"I was just muttering to myself, Blademaster."

And this title business really irked Eilidh. He called her by name, yet insisted that she refer to him as Blademaster, as if to constantly remind her of his profession. She got it alright. Liam was a cocky bastard who needed to be constantly reaffirmed by those around him. Eilidh may not have been the greatest fighter or the best healer, but she had enough going on between her ears to see insecurity staring her in the face.

And that poor Firbolg, Brian. The trainee had fallen in combat and his oblivious trainer had just stood over him. What if Brian's soul had actually passed on? What if Eilidh had not come at that exact moment to rescue him? It had taken every ounce of her power to retrieve his receding soul. She had never done anything like it before, reaching deep inside the wounds of an injured realm mate to convince their spirit not to flee, not yet. She had healed her own injuries in the past and once or twice fixed up a moderate cut or bruise on Ruaidhri, but she had no experience with fatal wounds.

Well, now she certainly did. The ordeal had greatly drained her power, but at the same time energized her spiritually. She had saved someone's life! How could her brothers not be proud now? They had never brought someone back from the brink of the deep abyss.

So if Brian had actually died on the tunnel floor, would Liam have had the integrity to carry the corpse back to the bind stone at the Labyrinth entrance? Judging by his current navigational skills, Eilidh highly doubted that the overconfident man would ever have made it. Where were they headed anyway? She did not recognize any of these tunnels.

No, Liam would not have deigned to carry his dead trainee. Liam would have done exactly what he did with the living Brian: pawn him off on the Rangers. Eilidh was sure that dragging Brian's body back up to the surface to rejoin it with its soul would be far beneath Liam's deluded sense of grandeur and importance. Even when she totally ignored his incessant storytelling, thoughts about him irritated the fire out of her.

As they walked down yet another unfamiliar corridor, Eilidh saw a trickle of water forcing its way out from between two large bricks in the wall to her left. She did not bother telling Mister Wonderful that she had stopped to investigate. He would work it out soon enough. Or maybe he wouldn't. She absolutely did not care at this point.

Yes, as she suspected, the water flowed down to the tunnel floor and then proceeded to carve a narrow canal in the same direction that Liam now walked. He was taking her deeper into the Labyrinth, not up to the surface. Eilidh sat on her haunches, contemplating his actions. Either he thought he was heading towards the surface and was just incompetent, or he knew fine well that they were not heading to the surface and he had an agenda of his own.

For the first time, Eilidh looked up and down the tight corridor and felt the isolation. She was alone with this man. Could he be luring her deep down to some secluded spot where he could do with her as he pleased? Eilidh had been around long enough to have heard the terrible stories that circulated. Ruaidhri had explained to her in grave detail the consequences of falling into the hands of a Norseman of Midgard. She had never heard of such atrocities before that. Did this Liam fellow think he could take advantage of this young woman?

Well if so, he had chosen the wrong woman to ensnare in his web.

She stood and fell back into step behind the Blademaster, who still babbled on endlessly, unaware that she had ever stopped. Eilidh let the distance between them increase just a little. Blademasters were renowned for their ability to charge with great speed into battle. If the need arose, she wanted time to brace herself. After all, Eilidh had already been attacked by one realm mate that day, so proceeding cautiously seemed prudent.

The tunnel walls in front of Liam appeared to flex slightly as the floor started to rumble underfoot. Liam stopped and drew both of his blades, the metal glowing faintly red. His head darted back and forth, checking for incoming danger, his face a little confused, as if he expected such a tremor to be caused by stampeding Minotaurs. But Eilidh had felt this before. She knew this was no stampede.

"Watch out, Liam!" she yelled. "The ceiling is cracking."

Liam looked straight up and saw what Eilidh had noticed. With the corridor quaking more and more violently now, a deep crevasse etched its way across the ceiling above Liam's head. As the first sections collapsed, Liam shot backwards towards the wall and launched himself off of it, flipping through the air. Eilidh looked on in disbelief as he completed at least four back-flips with arms outstretched, still holding his shining blades.

He hit the ground behind Eilidh and executed a perfect landing. With his swords now up and facing Eilidh and with his face displaying a creepy grin, Liam did not look particularly welcoming to Eilidh. She raised her shield in his direction and fumbled to release her blade from its sheath on her belt.

Liam started walking towards her now, causing Eilidh to take a step back as her sword refused to cooperate. She started to panic as the dark images from Ruaidhri's story filled her mind. A deep-seated fear gripped her and she gave up on the sword and held her shield with both hands, ready to strike at the Blademaster with all her might. He stepped closer still, his eyes staring straight through Eilidh with bewildering detachment.

As Liam drew with a couple of feet of Eilidh, he sheathed his swords and continued on his predetermined path. She carefully stepped out of his way, still holding the shield up in defense, not trusting the man at all. Liam did not even seem to notice her, or her fearfulness.

What was going on here?

Now drenched with the salty sweat of fright, Eilidh watched Liam walk away from her, towards the cave-in. Now she could understand. Sort of.

The ceiling had given way to the tremor and formed a loose stairway into a dark space above. Apparently the brush with death and the idea of adventuring in a new area had captivated Liam to the point of scaring Eilidh half to death.

She yelled angrily, "What is wrong with you, Liam?"

All of her panic and fear and tension unraveled verbally as she lowered her shield. He paused and turned, looking confused.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Eilidh stomped towards him and pulled out her blade, which now had suddenly decided to comply with her demands. To his credit, Liam did not even so much as flinch when she held the point to his throat. Even worse, he smiled.

"Alright Eilidh, can you explain what is going on, please?"

"You are the one who has some explaining to do, Liam," she said, emphasizing the use of his name instead of his professional title. "You scared me half to death and then just walked away."

Now the smile dropped and Liam looked incredibly concerned.

"Scared you? When? Just now? You were supposed to be highly impressed with my aerial acrobatics, not scared."

Now it was Eilidh's turn to be dumbfounded.

"No, you twit! Not the flips or whatever you did. Pulling your swords and walking towards me with a devilish look on your face scared me," she explained while slowly withdrawing her sword from his neck.

"Devilish look, you say? Well, we Blademasters do train in the use of many excellent facial expressions depending on the situation, but I did not realize that I had a devilish look in my repertoire. Thank you for noticing," he said, smiling again.

"This is not funny, Liam. I thought you were going to do something… horrible."

Eilidh blushed at the word, but not nearly as much as Liam did. He turned his face away quickly, trying to hide his shame at catching her meaning.

Still not facing her, he said, "Eilidh, I do not know what made you think of me as such a barbarian."

Now Eilidh looked down at her feet, his insult making her feel worse and worse as each second ticked by. A hand gently touched her face and lifted her eyes to his.

"I am a Blademaster of Hibernia, Eilidh. I gave a solemn promise to protect and defend all Hibernians. We are a proud realm and proudly stand on our integrity and principles. You have nothing to fear from me in this regard that worries you."

Were her brothers not Blademasters of the realm also? Why had they never shown her such respect?

"I did not mean to offend you, but consider my situation, Liam. I do not think erring on the side of caution was a mistake."

A grand smile filled his whole face.

"Right you are, Eilidh. I appreciate your paranoia. 'Kill first and ask questions later' has always been my motto."

Eilidh frowned and looked away, once again a little bit confused by the Blademaster's words. At least she was back to just thinking the man was crazy and not a vile predator.

"Well, let's head up through this gap in the ceiling. I do believe we now have an impromptu passage into the tunnel above. This is very exciting," he exclaimed as he bounded up the pile of rubble.

Eilidh shook her head at his sudden enthusiasm and tried to follow his path. His manic and careless approach to climbing sent small rock slides and debris flying down towards Eilidh. Twice she lost her footing and fell back a few feet, prompting a scream at least once. Okay, maybe twice.

The total climb was only thirty feet and Eilidh quickly noticed a decrease in the number of stones hurtling towards her. Obviously Liam had already made it to the top of the pile. The climb drained the strength from Eilidh's muscles, hindering her progress. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally looked up and saw Liam standing just above her. Eilidh buckled down and dragged her ungainly armor the last few feet and collapsed on the floor at Liam's feet, which still stood on the pile of rocks and not on the new tunnel's floor.

Why had he not stepped into the tunnel yet?

In between breaths she sputtered, "Liam, I know that we just had a nice moment downstairs, and I don't really want to put a damper on that, but why did you not help me up this treacherous pile of rocks?"

"Shut up, woman. And do not even think about moving."

This was not Liam's voice. This was a woman's voice and not only that, it was the voice of a Celt. Fear started to infiltrate Eilidh's mind again. Had she found yet another hostile Hibernian? As instructed, she continued to hold still, staring at Liam's unmoving boots. Why was he not doing anything? If he truly wanted to impress her, now was definitely a good time to start.

Ruaidhri, why am I having such poor luck with our own realm today?

**Chapter 7**

Two Celtic women stood in frozen awe as the large tunnel before them pitched and rolled like a ship battered in stormy seas. The tremors raged, spilling torches from the walls onto the floor, punching cracks into the tall ceiling. One of the Celts gripped a flawlessly crafted harp with white knuckles, seeking comfort in the grooves and smooth curves of the wood. Her companion stood tall, gaining strength from the presence of the wolf at her side. She gently stroked the tense animal's bristling fur, assuring him that they were all fine.

And as suddenly as the violent motion had started, the rumbling faded, leaving the walls intact, but crumbling slowly. A dusty breeze flowed through the expansive passageway, creating the only audible sound.

The women stood stalk-still, wide-eyed and shocked by nature's fury. They had both spent years studying the ways of nature, honing their skills by harnessing its deep magic, but never had they witnessed such raw power in person. Who could command such destruction other than nature itself?

Torches lined the tunnel floor now, burning their seemingly unquenchable flames, magically lit by the spells of the Minotaur. The rows of light formed a walkway of fire, leading to a dark spot in the ground. Even after taking just a few steps towards the spot, both women could see the large hole formed in the tile floor ahead. They continued forward slowly, curious, but guarded.

And both stopped in a heartbeat as a head appeared from the depths of the collapse. The head continued on its upward journey as a body and legs also appeared from the gloom. Now was no time for hesitation.

"Stop right there!" yelled the harp wielder.

The newly arrived, much unwanted guest halted, facing away from the women.

"And don't turn around, or I will kill you where you stand," added the musician.

Following the instructions well, the intruder resembled a statue. In the illumination of the fallen torches, another form appeared, this one lying down at the feet of the statue. Red flowing hair could be seen protruding from under a well-worn helm. From the red head, a female voice spoke in the Celtic tongue, but the two watching women had no patience for even their own kind today, and with good reason.

"Shut up, woman. And do not even think about moving," said the woman with the harp. The wolf tamer had no issue allowing her musically-inclined companion to handle the talking for now.

The giant wolf accompanying the two women paced uneasily around them, its protective instincts peaking hyperactively. Kearney had a habit of guarding the sisters, and not just during cave-ins. Once he had bitten off a piece of an overly forward male suitor who could now only sit on one buttock.

No matter where he moved in the tunnel, the wolf always kept an eye on the two newcomers to the party, just as the sisters did. The previous few hours had proved incredibly eventful and confusing. Never before had they been attacked by members of their own realm seemingly working in conjunction with the enemy, but there was apparently a first for everything. One of the sisters still unconsciously poked at a fresh cut in her armor, just over her left elbow. Even a slightly more powerful blow would have sheared her arm clean off.

"Shela, you're doing it again," said the other sister, still facing their newly encountered realm mates.

"Whatever, Fionn," Shela snapped, continuing to touch the rough edges of the damaged sleeve. "You didn't just about lose an arm back there."

"Be nice, sister. If I recall correctly, I am the one who prevented you from losing more than an arm."

Shela now turned to her sister with a glare that could melt stone. Fionn looked at her irate younger sister with all of the impatience of an elder sibling.

"And if I recall correctly, Fionn, I am the one who got us away from that hoard of traitors."

The woman lying on the ground coughed and both sisters snapped to attention. Shela started to shout for the woman to keep quiet, but stopped short. The man who had stood next to the prostrate woman had disappeared. Fionn took a step back instinctively. If this man had knowledge in the ways of stealth, he could be sneaking up on the sisters while they bickered.

"Shela, we might have a problem here," Fionn whispered.

Kearney picked up on his master's unease and stepped in front of her, sniffing the air menacingly, itching for a fight. Unfortunately, Fionn doubted that even her pet's acute senses could uncover a skilled master of hiding. Those damned stealthers could blend in anywhere and then strike without warning.

Shela, as usual, did not share her sister's concern.

"He can try whatever he wants. He won't be able to kill us."

Another cough resonated from the hole in the floor, where the woman, who the sisters had already identified as a Celt like themselves, still lay flat. This cough sounded noticeably deeper than the last. Fionn and Shela exchanged a quick glance. Shela smiled and then slowly edged forward towards the opening in the ground. She stopped when Fionn hissed at her.

Shela whispered adamantly, "If they were enemies, they would not have stopped at the sight of a mere Bard and Druid, sister. That is hardly an imposing sight."

In truth, neither of the sisters had much combat training. They mostly fulfilled roles as support for the fighters. It was a difficult life, trying to keep alive those who seemed so desperate to die famously in battle.

"So?"

Shela shook her head in exasperation.

"So it means that they are friendly. And, if I am not mistaken, I do believe my last comment upset that man," Shela explained quietly.

Fionn asked, "Which comment? And why?"

Shela smiled again and simply said, "Just watch."

Once again the Bard stepped forward towards the hole.

Louder now, she said, "Sister, obviously the man has abandoned his woman, running for fear of the valiant and imposing duo before him."

Another deep cough flew out of the hole, a little angrier than the first. Shela stifled a laugh and now Fionn understood her sister's little game. She was stepping on someone's pride. Fionn, the Druid, motioned for her pet Kearney to stay put and then joined her sister, both very close to the hole now.

Now Fionn took a turn.

"That's right. He must be a very weak man and definitely not a fighter of any kind."

A faint response could be heard whispered just below the line of sight into the hole.

"It is a lie! I am the most valiant and superb Blademaster ever!"

The whisper was followed by yet another cough in a bizarre attempt to cover up the involuntary rebuttal of slanderous words. The sisters doubled over laughing, having trodden on this poor man's ego to their satisfaction. The young woman lying on the floor next to them now turned over and sat up, staring at the pair with a smile on her face. Apparently she knew the game also.

Now the man leapt out of the hole and landed behind them, swords drawn. All three women regarded him with shock, not expecting such hostility. Kearney, vigilant friend, apparently had anticipated such a move and had shot out from the shadows, tackling the Celt from behind. The red blades clanged across the floor as the man lay splayed out underneath the weight of the great black wolf. The animal's growling did little to silence the man's instant protests.

"Get this beast off of me!" he exclaimed. "I have done nothing wrong here. You have tarnished my good name with your lies!"

"Fionn, it would appear that your dog has caught a mighty Blademaster for dinner. Isn't that nice?" said Shela, grinning widely.

Blademasters had quite a reputation for oversized and easily injured egos, a fact that Shela frequently enjoyed to manipulate. The young woman took great pleasure from the emotional discomfort of others, which was why she had opted to become a Bard instead of a Druid like her sister. A Druid such as Fionn could enjoy a good giggle, but any kind of harm to a realm mate moved them deeply, even if it was just the harm of embarrassment. Having said that, certain people, such as overzealous Blademasters, deserved a good ribbing every now and then.

"Let him up, please," came a small voice from behind the sisters.

They turned to see a petite Celtic Warden, and judging from her cheap and tattered equipment, not a very good one at that. Fionn whistled at Kearney, who quickly returned to her side, keeping his eyes on the befuddled Blademaster.

"What are you doing with this blowhard, Warden?" demanded Shela in her characteristic I-do-not-like-you-so-now-I-will-interrogate-you voice.

The tone seemed to surprise the young Warden. She glanced at her recovering friend, who now was sheepishly retrieving his weapons. Without responding to the question, she got up and joined her companion. Shela just rolled her eyes.

"I asked you a question, dear," she said, and not nicely.

The Warden continued to tend to her friend and answered without looking up at Shela.

"I am Eilidh. I am searching for my lost friend, Ruaidhri. We were separated in a cave-in earlier," Eilidh explained, gaining a little confidence from her proximity to the Blademaster, Fionn sensed.

The young woman looked over and continued, "This is Liam, a great Blademaster who has chosen to help me find Ruaidhri."

Shela stifled a giggle as Liam's face turned red. This interesting encounter had taught Fionn and Shela a lot about this man in a very short space of time. Obviously he did not like his skills to be questioned, yet the affirmation from this pretty young woman made him blush. So did he have an ulterior motive in helping this woman find her true companion? And from what Fionn could tell, the naïve Eilidh had no idea what was going on inside Liam's head. This young woman had a lot to learn about a lot of things from the looks of it.

Fionn thought this was a cute love triangle of sorts, but she knew what her sister would think of such silliness and preemptively jabbed Shela's side in hopes of keeping the younger sister's mouth in check.

At the sound of the patronizing laugh from Shela, Liam's face creased into a gallant smile and the red dissolved immediately.

"And what, may I ask, are you two doing here, ladies of Hibernia?" he asked pleasantly.

"Well, we are on a mission ourselves and encountered some opposition that decided to chase us for miles through these hallways," Shela explained. "We ended up right here as the floor caved in and then you two appeared."

Eilidh asked, "What is your mission?"

The sisters looked at each other. Communication did not need words for the twin sisters. Shela was mere hours younger than Fionn, but even from that moment, their mother knew that Shela would be the headstrong one.

"You were not happy to be forced from the womb, my dear child," their mother would say. "Eventually the midwife resigned herself to waiting for you to come out in your own time. And that you did."

In Fionn's mind, that first event summed up her sister perfectly to this day.

And now Shela nodded to Fionn, allowing the elder sibling to explain their situation. A grave countenance fell upon Fionn as she contemplated the dire business that had driven the sisters into the Labyrinth of the Minotaur. Not every day did children search for the hope that their own father so desperately needed. Their failure to locate his prized possession could kill him, if the black depths of depression had not already claimed his fading life in their absence. The weight pressed down on Fionn's spirit, physically compressing her body, it seemed. A gentle hand on her shoulder snapped away the miry daze clouding her thoughts.

Shela gazed into her sister's eyes, displaying rare affection in front of strangers. The twins had always been a very privately fond pair, with Shela often tormenting her sister in public growing up, and then showing love in isolation from onlookers. That hurtful behavior had all ended with the disappearance that brought the twins to the Labyrinth. They had to act together, and swiftly.

Even the eyes of Eilidh showed compassion beyond her knowledge. Fionn's shrunken appearance alone had moved the younger woman, who had been but a girl only moments ago. Without knowing anything of the problem, Eilidh could easily sense a difficult situation had brought the sisters on a difficult mission.

Fionn opened her mouth to speak, but barely got one word out before Kearney growled deeply beside her. Her eyes followed his towards the darkness from where they had come, her hand found his thick black fur bristling sharply. The other three companions looked around, but saw and heard nothing.

"What is it, Fionn?" asked Shela, a scowl preemptively forming on her face, the face of battle.

"They have found us, Shela."

Eilidh looked confused.

"Who has found us?" she asked, very concerned.

Shela stepped forward and pulled out her Bard's harp. Now all four members of the small group could hear the faint cries and yelps approaching from an unseen passageway. The echoes haunted the hallway, prickling the skin of the Celts. Shela flexed her fingers, preparing for battle.

"They have found us," she growled.

Fionn checked her small shield against her arm, gave it a bang for good measure. They could try to escape down into the hole in the floor, but running away again was not really an option to either sister. Confrontation was inevitable.

So they would fight.

**Chapter 8**

The screams and shouts resounded throughout the wide hallway, bombarding the four Celts from seemingly all directions. The figures tensed as the cacophony reached its boiling point, flooding the expansive space with dread-inspiring noise. No enemies had rushed from the many side corridors spewing off of the main passageway, but their loud battle cries told that confrontation was imminent.

Eilidh the young Warden looked at her three companions, four if she included the terrifying wolf. Ready for a fight, the large animal resembled a creature of nightmares, with enormous bared teeth snapping ferociously, claws like obsidian razors, and shoulder muscles bunched and twisted like thick ropes of iron. Despite knowing better, Eilidh took a step back, eyes wide and fixated on the seething furry fury.

"Do not worry about Kearney, Eilidh," said Fionn with the same calm anger that Eilidh recognized from being quietly scalded by her own father. The polite rage always frightened her the most. Fionn stared intensely towards the incoming raucous, daring the unseen enemy to attack her.

"He's on our side," added Shela.

The Bard stood holding her instrument of choice, a harp of such intricate design that Eilidh could not discern its origin. In fact, the Warden now noticed that all three human allies had similarly designed weapons and armor. She also shamefully noticed that she did not look the part at all, standing next to three confident warriors all decked out in expensive armor and weaponry.

Her head had barely had a chance to hang low when a gentle hand raised her face. Liam smiled at her, apparently oblivious to the sounds of chaos approaching swiftly. With a wink, he released her face and turned to address all three women.

"Buff me," he demanded.

Eilidh's eyebrow jumped up in confusion as she glanced over at the other two women. To her increased befuddlement, they both nodded and started casting nurturing spells of strength, dexterity, and might on the Blademaster. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back peacefully as the magical enhancements flowed through his body, increasing his abilities and reinforcing his spirit.

The chanting ceased only for a moment before resuming, now with Eilidh as the target. Her entire being felt uplifted, she felt invincible, she felt like she could drive a fist through a castle wall without straining. Never had she experienced anything like it, the feeling of power and agility that accompanied the Druid and Bard's nurturing magic. Of course, as a Warden, Eilidh could bolster her own abilities to a point, but she had never seen the same spells used on another person.

Could she do the same? Could she buff people other than herself? She started to ask Fionn that very question when Liam cut her off.

"So we probably have about thirty seconds before the hounds of destruction are upon us," he started, very dramatically. He strutted back and forth before them, an arrogant swagger in his step. "Bard and Druid should take up positions behind these pillars jutting out from the walls on either side of the tunnel. The Warden will take a cover position behind the next pillar down, towards the approach of these dastardly devils. Wait for my signal, and then support me while I defeat all opposition."

Eilidh could tell that Shela was not used to taking orders from a mere melee fighter. Her body was stiff as a board and her knuckles had brightened to pure white against her beautiful harp. Before the vengeful words could start, Fionn interrupted her.

"Sounds like a plan," she stated and then jogged to her position.

Shela glared at her sister, but Fionn just motioned for her to move over to the other pillar, twenty feet away, against the opposite wall. Not happy, the Bard stepped angrily to her place, trying to cause another floor collapse from the way she stomped. Eilidh watched with worry, wondering why Fionn had agreed so easily to a plan that her sister disagreed with. Liam now stood in the middle of the tunnel, close to where Eilidh was supposed to be. The noisy din had increased in intensity once more and Fionn had to shout to be heard.

"Eilidh, we don't have time to argue about this. Just get in position and do your best," she yelled from the shadows.

After hustling to her hiding spot, Eilidh peeked out to see Liam standing in the middle of the tunnel, all alone. A deep black cloak covered his lowered head and draped completely around his body. In a slightly darker place, Eilidh could have easily walked right past the Blademaster without even noticing him, but the torches lining the floor illuminated him eerily. Surely he knew that the enemy would see him! Was this just another foolhardy Blademaster, or could he really save the whole group?

Ruaidhri, would you do this?

Her reverie ended abruptly as the hoots and cries suddenly ceased all around her. Another peek around the pillar revealed no enemies, but Liam remained still as a statue. Sweat had formed under her ill-fitting helm and now ran in cold trickles down her neck, soaking the linens under her hideously adorned armor. A shiver gripped her as a cool draft of air kissed her exposed cheeks.

The silence felt like an unreachable itch, driving Eilidh mad with impatient frustration. She feared the fierce enemy that threatened them, but she shook with the anticipation of letting her sword and shield speak freely amongst the enemy. The shivering was constant now, the cool breeze assaulting the cracks and joints in her cheap armor.

She dared another look from her hiding spot and jumped back with her hand muffling a cry of surprise. At least eight foes had appeared silently in the hallway and were rushing noiselessly towards the isolated Liam. The confidence of having the Druid's spells enhancing her combat abilities waned. Hardly daring to move, Eilidh forced her eyes to keep watch over the Blademaster, anxiously awaiting his signal.

I can't do this, Ruaidhri. I can't do this. I'm not ready to die.

What was the signal? Liam had never said! How would she know when to attack? The questions shot through her mind, diverting her fearful worries into a lower priority. Now the Warden concentrated on the mental task list that had automatically materialized in her head. She focused and created a magical barrier of protection around Liam. With a few outlandishly dexterous movements of her hands, she drew on the power of the ground around her to increase her companions' resilience against certain forms of magic. Never had her hands moved so fluidly, so quickly, or so accurately. Confidence welled up once more.

The next time that Eilidh snuck a peek at Liam, time slowed down to a grinding halt. The enemies' faces held grim and frightening expressions, lit by the flickering of the flames on the tunnel floor. Eilidh steeled herself in her hiding place, muscles tensing anxiously. Now only a few feet separated the charging foes and the still unmoving Liam. Eilidh braced herself, fearing the worst.

Liam is paralyzed with fear.

A giant of a Troll reached the Blademaster first and hefted a monstrous hammer above its head. As the fire-engulfed head of the hammer started its downward stroke towards Liam's skull, the Celt's cloak billowed out in all directions as his hands produced his signature red blades.

Eilidh regarded the scene in awe as Liam's body twisted to avoid the stone beast's blow, while he also managed to yell, "I'm flyin' in!"

The flaming hammer struck the floor with force enough to smash tiles and send a shockwave through Eilidh's boots. Through the fiery dust cloud created by the crushing weight of the hammer, Eilidh could make out a whirlwind of fury darting around shadowy enemies, unleashing disaster upon them. The sight froze her in place, but not with fear. It was like nothing she had ever seen before, watching Liam dance through the blades and hammers of the enemy, lashing out elegant vengeance at will.

"Eilidh, that was the signal, idiot!" yelled a voice from behind.

The young Warden turned to see Shela rushing past her, bounding like a deer over the flaming torches. The Bard's hand beat furiously on the body of her harp, the magical rhythm empowering all friendly combatants to fight ceaselessly. Fionn stood in the middle of the tunnel, maintaining a safe distance as she chanted the healing spells keeping Liam immune to the crushing blows he sustained in his fighting.

Eilidh felt invigorated to a whole new level, no sense of fatigue able to prevail against the Bard's song. She darted out from concealment and collided with a tall Firbolg who must have been charging towards Fionn, trying to interrupt her healing spells. The pair crashed to the ground, but the veteran Firbolg was on his feet in an instant, now eyeing the kill on the sprawled form of Eilidh. She looked up and saw the bemused look in his eyes as he made a move towards her.

The thought that a Firbolg should never attack a Celt did not enter Eilidh's mind. Her encounter with the Elf earlier had thrown all preconceived notions to the wind. Now she just scrambled backwards, scooting on her behind, trying to pull up her shield and sword to defend herself from such a vulnerable position. If she took the time to stand in her clumsy armor, she would be struck down. The Firbolg's swagger indicated that he was a Blademaster just like Liam.

Well, not just like Liam. Liam did not want to kill his own countrymen.

Before he got in range to swing, thick tree roots shot out through cracks in the floor and entwined themselves around the Firbolg's thick legs. Eilidh quickly gained her feet while she watched the tall enemy fumble and struggle with the constricting vines. Was this magic?

"Eilidh, he'll be stuck for a while. Go help Liam!" Fionn called from behind.

The Firbolg futilely struck out towards Eilidh as she ran past. She flinched instinctively, but kept going, anxious to help out.

The scene before her resembled nothing less than absolute chaos. She had never been involved in such a large scale fight before. Her hesitation held her feet in place, not quite sure what to do, how to help. Liam still moved ferociously and precisely around three enemies angrily wielding large weapons. Their inability to bring the Celt down fed their fury. A Norseman roared inhumanly and transformed before Eilidh's eyes into a giant frenzied bear, swinging two axes with strength beyond that of any human. She could not believe her eyes. How could a man just change into a bear? Was this one of the fabled Berserkers?

Beyond the melee in front of her, Kearney pounced on a diminutive Kobold. The blue skinned foe crashed to the ground and struggled feverishly with the much larger wolf. Judging by the Kobold's weak fighting ability and its small shield, Eilidh imagined that he or she must be a Shaman of Midgard, skilled in the arts of Cave magic, inflicting wasting diseases on foes and calling forth the roots of the Earth to ensnare the enemy.

Behind the raging wolf, a Briton of the realm of Albion appeared from the shadows and cast a spell that froze Kearney like a stone, jaws held agape in ferocity. The same Briton then chanted a spell that appeared to help the Kobold recover, because the next thing Eilidh knew was that the sneering blue Kobold had rooted Kearney in place. After being stunned, Kearney struggled frantically, not sure why his legs would not move through the tangle of magical vines.

Shela rushed past in front of Eilidh with a Half-Ogre in tow. The great polearm in Half-Ogre's grip slashed endlessly at Shela's feet as she deftly leapt through the fallen flames and bounced off the walls.

"Do something, Eilidh!" Shela yelped while dodging yet another attack from her assailant.

Shame cast a dark shadow over Eilidh. She had been watching her companions fight on her behalf while she just watched in confusion. Doing anything surely outweighed doing nothing at all. Her failure to act could have doomed them all.

Now spurred on by the deep shame, Eilidh bodily tackled the Half-Ogre, who had been totally oblivious to her presence. He went down hard with a grunt and before he could recover, Eilidh drove her shield solidly into the back of his head, cracking his face down on the dirty tiles. Up she got and rushed to Liam's aid, but her short sword could not even penetrate the exposed flanks of her enemies. Their armor rejected her blade as if it were made of grass and reeds.

Liam poked his head out of the fray while still parrying the rain of blows effortlessly. He told Eilidh, "Go and get after that Briton Cleric in the back. He is keeping these ruffians alive and believe it or not, I cannot do this all day."

His smile worried Eilidh a little. Who could smile at a time like this?

She pressed on through the fight and found the Cleric of the Church of Albion standing perfectly still, with his eyes closed. Seeing her opportunity to prove herself, she charged and drew back her puny weapon. Before she could strike the desired blow, a strong hand grabbed her wrist from behind. Eilidh twisted around and drove a knee into the gut of her attacker.

Shela gasped and let go of Eilidh's arm.

"I am so sorry, Shela," Eilidh called out, feeling terrible.

Through wheezes, the Bard replied, "Not now. Do not hit that Cleric. I put him to sleep. Go help Liam."

Thoroughly confused at being tossed from one end of the fight to the other, Eilidh rushed back to Liam's aid. With the Cleric's healing powers subdued, Liam had slain two of his opponents, leaving only the great Troll standing, his fiery hammer casting wicked shadows as it sliced through the air in deadly arcs. Not taking his eyes from his most dangerous foe, Liam yelled for Eilidh to go take care of the Lurikeen.

"What Lurikeen?" she yelled back, feeling more useless than ever. Why wouldn't her own allies let her fight?

Shela materialized next to them both and called out, "I think he's on our side, Liam. He helped Kearney kill that Shaman and he's chasing down the Saracen."

These words flooded into the growing discombobulated mess within Eilidh's head. What Lurikeen? What Saracen? She scanned around and indeed saw the Kobold Shaman lying motionless. Movement out of the corner of her eye attracted her attention, and she turned in time to see the Saracen appear from behind a pillar and eye her intensely as it started drawing on unholy power, its hands glowing pink and red.

Eilidh ran towards the Saracen, but knew that she could never reach her foe in time to stop the imminent and crippling pain heading her way. She braced herself as the Saracen's hands completed their motion. The Warden squeezed her eyes shut, expecting the life-draining spell to hurt. A lot.

But she felt nothing.

She opened her eyes and saw the Saracen sprawled before her, its staff strewn in pieces around the lifeless body. Now disconcerted, Eilidh looked around, swiveling her head, trying to establish what had just happened. Why was she still alive?

Then she saw the small Lurikeen appear from the shadows behind the Saracen. His magical staff stood much taller than he and even a novice fighter such as Eilidh could tell from his accoutrement that he held a high stature in the armies of Hibernia. He radiated authority and power as he strode past her without even a glance. Eilidh watched in awe as the diminutive spell caster created spheres of destructive force between his small hands and then launched the crackling spells towards his enemies.

In short order, the powerful Lurikeen dispatched the sleeping Cleric, the Firbolg Blademaster, and then killed the Half-Ogre that Eilidh had failed to finish off in her hurry to help Liam. Now the only enemy left standing was the great stone-skinned Troll who now circled Liam in a seething fury.

The Hibernians closed in around the Troll, who started to back up, taking a defensive stance. In a move displaying uncanny quickness for such a large being, the Troll sheathed its enormous hammer and produced a shield the size of a cottage door. In its other hand glowed a smaller version of the larger fiery hammer. It beat on the shield with the hammer and a deep crunching noise like grinding granite resonated from deep within the stone-like body.

A sharp whistle caught everyone's attention. Eilidh watched as Liam motioned with his hand for them to back off, to stay put. She hesitated, watching the others for a reaction. They just nodded and stopped, including their new companion, the Lurikeen mage. Kearney continued to growl from his master's side, but remained glued in place, unable to strike without Fionn's approval.

Eilidh edged closer to Fionn and drew a snap from Kearney. After emitting an awkward cough, trying to hide her overt flinch at the wolf's aggression, Eilidh whispered to Fionn, "Why are we not helping Liam?"

Fionn did not move her gaze from the battle waiting to start, but she responded, "We do not interrupt duels, Eilidh. Just watch."

Aghast, Eilidh whispered back, "Just watch? But what if the Troll wins?"

Now Shela joined the conversation and looked at the younger woman gravely.

"If the Troll wins, we will reward it with a slow, painful death."

**Chapter 9**

Shela watched the pair of duelers strafe each other, both searching for a solid opportunity to strike. The Troll, despite being short for its kind, stood well over a head higher than the Celt, who was actually quite tall for their race. The armor of both combatants was dyed a deep black, which was not unusual for fighters of their experience level, mainly due to the cost of the dark enamel dye. In the obscure lighting from the few fallen torches still lit on the cavernous tunnel's floor, Shela observed the two shadow-like forms shifting back and forth, edging closer and then away, immersed in the tide of battle. The deadly beauty of their seemingly choreographed movements captivated her.

Regarding the well-matched fighters vying for position welled up an old and well-known disappointment in Shela's soul. As a Bard of the realm of Hibernia, Shela was greatly skilled in the magical art of music. With a beat on a drum, or harp for that matter, she could suppress all feelings of fatigue from any allies nearby. With a strum of a stringed instrument, she could propel allies onward with amazing speed. With a tune on a flute, she could summon regenerating melodies of the Earth to help allies recover their power after suffering from the drain of casting many spells.

These support functions were all well and good, but what kind of combat capabilities did she really have? She could cast amnesia spells that made her foe briefly forget their current action, or put a great army to sleep temporarily, or confuse the enemy into fighting amongst themselves.

But where was the glory in these acts?

Sudden movement broke her from the depressing train of thought.

The Troll darted forward, its shield blocking a cross cut from Liam. The fiery hammer inside the Warrior of Midgard's great fist swung from out wide, but just barely missed the Celt's exposed thigh. The Troll's reach advantage required the lithe Blademaster to evade perfectly in order to draw in close enough to attack. Liam moved gracefully and swiftly, but had a hard time getting either of his blades past the Warrior's great shield.

Shela continued to watch, but her thoughts once again monopolized her attention. What could a Bard do to kill those who deserved her vengeance? She could yell out a concussive blast that only inflicted mild injury to a hardened enemy. The act put a great strain on her voice, which she needed for chanting her other spells, so she could not even do this paltry offensive attack very often.

All she had ever wanted was to swing a weapon as Liam did so effortlessly before her. Her having the ability to attack in melee tirelessly meant nothing if her opponents could easily parry and dodge her every move. The job of a Bard consisted of suppressing the enemy while her allies did all of the real work, the rewarding work.

Shela looked at her sister, deep in hushed conversation with the completely helpless Warden. How could Fionn stand it, being in the backlines of every fight, keeping others alive, but never dealing out her own wrath? In truth, Shela's twin sister had never been quick to anger. Life had dealt that card to Shela, her short fuse well-known in their hometown of Mag Mell. Perhaps helping others gave Fionn all the reward that she needed, but Shela wanted more. She had always wanted more, wanted to not be so helpless by herself. Relying on others was a sign of great weakness.

The Bard watched the ongoing fight once more.

After a quick feint to the Troll's left, Liam drove forward with both swords flashing straight ahead, but the Warrior of Midgard countered brilliantly, not biting on the fake. The enormous shield thrust straight down, pinning one of Liam's red blades to the ground. Shela heard Eilidh gasp. The Troll's other hand brought the hammer down onto the top of Liam's left shoulder with a sickening thump, flattening the Celt.

With a deft lunge, the Warrior's foot shot out towards Liam's injured shoulder, but the Blademaster had sensed the move and rolled away to his right. The Troll's stomp echoed in the quiet hallway and left a deep imprint in the stone floor. Now on his feet, Liam stood with his left arm hanging limp, yet still his left hand gripped his sword. The Troll seemed to mutter something, but all Shela heard was a sound like a stone being ground to dust.

Now Shela saw, as she had done many times in the past, her reason for being. She could easily help Liam defeat the Troll, if she so desired. Or in this case, if Liam so desired, but the Blademasters were a stubborn crew who were far too proud to back out of a losing battle. With a few words and a wave of her hand, she could heal his broken shoulder and send him back into the fight with fervor. But she wouldn't. She had to respect the rules of the duel.

Looking to her sister, Shela saw Fionn fidgeting listlessly with Kearney's fur, grinding her fingers into the animal's tough hide. The wolf growled deeply and continuously at an incredibly low volume, the sound reverberating in Shela's bones. Both Fionn and the wolf desperately wanted to intercede. Druids typically could not stand the sight of a brother or sister dying in combat and Fionn was no exception. Shela just did not have that same driving motivation.

The Troll circled Liam, sensing the end to be near, but maintaining a safe distance to let the pain seep into the Blademaster's core, to destabilize the still dangerous Celt. Before the Troll could maneuver to stop him, Liam sheathed his right sword and produced a glass vial from his belt. Shela recognized the red potion as Liam chugged the fluid down in a single gulp. Aggravated to no end, the Troll rushed Liam, hammer reaching to pummel the Celt, but the potion had worked its magic quickly, returning the feeling to Liam's deadened arm. Now the two struggled in their most intense exchange of blows yet, clashing weapons and smashing armor in a whirlwind of movement.

Shela could not help but think that despite having the ability to win or lose a fight for her allies, a Bard never received the credit or the glory. Neither did Druids for that matter, but she focused on her own problems for the time being. The recognition always went to the fighter who actually killed the enemy, like Liam or the Lurikeen Eldritch who had shown up at the end of the fight to obliterate most of the enemy by himself. Shela so desired to do that, to have that experience of absolute power in a fight. She wanted to strut into a battle that her allies were losing and eliminate the enemy for them.

But she could not. All she could do was her best to stop her allies getting hurt.

The fiery hammer flew down from high above the Troll's head, intent on smashing Liam's, but the Celt raised both blades in a cross to catch the blow. The force of the collision dropped Liam to one knee, but with a twist of his wrists, the Troll's weapon flew free and dashed against the tiled floor. With a great roar, the Troll thrust forward with its shield and knocked Liam onto his back. While the Blademaster regained his footing, the Troll produced its two-handed hammer once more.

Shela had never seen a weapon like it. It was easily taller than Liam just by itself. She guessed from the flames swirling around the head of the weapon that the Troll had slain one of the great dragons to obtain it. Shela and Fionn had also been part of groups that had vanquished a few dragons and stolen from their treasure hoards, but they had not found anything like this amazing implement of death.

Barely on his feet, Liam had no way to block the incoming shot. Eilidh screamed in warning, but her cry only distracted the Blademaster more. The fiery hammer struck him square in the chest and sent him flying down the hallway. He careened into the wall and lay in a crumpled pile at the far end of the tunnel, away from his allies.

If the Troll wins, we will reward it with a slow, painful death.

Those words were still true. Shela thought about them as the Troll slowly, methodically wandered towards the fallen Celt. Even with victory so close, the Troll showed its extreme level of discipline, not rushing into any potential traps.

Well, if it wins, the Eldritch will have to kill it, because none of the rest of us can.

The thought perplexed Shela. The sisters had never really ventured out alone before, as they had on this mission. They both usually accepted their limited combat abilities and sought the help of others, but this quest had been different, personal. The thought of her missing brother saddened her. If their Gavin was here, he would defend them. Luckily for them, this Lurikeen had appeared at an opportune time, because they were probably going to lose Liam.

As the Troll pulled up next to the battered and unconscious Celt, Shela feared the worst. The sight of the Troll raising the mighty hammer that would smite Liam down made her wonder if her own brother, lost in the depths of the Labyrinth, had met with the same fate. Gavin had disappeared a week previously, after leaving the family home on a mission to the Labyrinth on behalf of the King of Hibernia. Fionn and Shela had wondered about what possible reason the King would have for sending their younger brother off to the dilapidated and crumbling Labyrinth of the Minotaur, but Gavin had insisted that what he said was true.

Time slowed down to an unbearable crawl as the Troll towered over Liam, hammer held high.

Shela and Fionn would never have come all the way to the Labyrinth by themselves, but other matters had complicated the potential rescue effort. Their father was dying. Gower, once a great and strong Hero of the realm, was now succumbing to an incurable illness that had ravaged his once perfect body. He had insisted that his daughters seek out the fate of his only son, for he could not rest in death without knowing Gavin's fate. The dire image of her father's imminent demise brought a solitary tear to Shela's eye. In fact, he could already be dead and their mission for naught.

No. Even if Father dies, we must find out the truth and avenge Gavin if necessary.

The Troll slowly lowered its hammer down and looked to its left, ignoring Liam for a moment. Eilidh broke the painful silence that had built up in the last few moments as the onlookers assumed the worst for Liam.

"What is it doing?" asked Eilidh.

Shela had no idea, but did not respond to the Warden's stupid question. The young woman had no idea how to be a Warden, and it annoyed Shela to no end that even a terrible Warden like Eilidh could still do something that the Bard never had. Kill an enemy of the realm.

With a great yell, the Troll rushed off into a side passage leading from the main hallway. The Hibernians all rushed forward together, not sure whether to expect friend or foe approaching. When they reached the small passage, the sight shocked them.

The Troll lay dead and rotting at the feet of a young female Elf, dressed in the robes of a Mentalist. Shela had a hard time believing that such a young Elf could be so powerful, but then again, the Elves rarely showed their true age in their appearance. Before she could enquire about how the Elf had managed to fell a mighty Warrior, the Lurikeen stomped up to the Elf in a tizzy, waving his tall staff in her face.

"What is wrong with you, Aelfraed? You just interrupted a duel!" he cried in a high-pitched voice.

"I saved that injured Celt, Bob, which is more than I can say that you did," replied the Elf evenly.

"He told us not to help. That is the whole point of a duel," the Lurikeen pointed out.

"That Troll would have killed the Celt and then what, Bob? Who would have killed the Troll as retribution? The Bard? Ha. I think not," stated the Elf.

Now Shela was not amused.

"Who do you think you are? You keep your opinions to yourself, Elf," ordered Shela.

The Elf regarded Shela with the patronizing disdain that Elves commanded so well.

"Hush, Celt."

Seething now, Shela stepped forward, but the Lurikeen called Bob motioned her back.

"If the Celt had lost, I would've killed the Troll, Aelfraed, and you know it," he said.

"I think not. You would have killed him already if you thought that you could," the Elf responded.

Tired of the pointless argument, Shela looked around, instinctively scanning her surroundings for any potential threats. That was when she saw it. Or at least, she thought she saw it.

Yes! She definitely saw the tell-tale shimmery form of a Hibernian sneak creeping through the shadows of a dark recess of the tunnel. Another shape caught her eye and when she glanced towards it, she could have sworn that she saw the large head of a Firbolg disappear around the far corner. Now she could not find the shadowy movements of the stealther, but she suspected that this Elf had not slain the Troll alone. Still ignoring the pair of bickering mages, Shela crouched down next to the dead Troll to investigate.

Ah, yes. Hibernian arrows. As I thought.

Apparently a friendly Ranger or two had helped kill the Warrior, sticking to the shadows to avoid detection. Shela had greatly doubted that even the greatest Mentalist could defeat a Warrior one-on-one, but the broken arrows protruding from under the fallen Troll confirmed that the Elf had received some welcome assistance. Perhaps if the Lurikeen could get over his pride for a few moments, he too would notice the evidence and cease the fruitless debating.

But why would our hidden allies not reveal themselves after the fight?

The question hung in her mind restlessly, seeking an answer that the Bard could not yet provide. Shela stood and turned her back on the bickering pair and headed back to where Liam now sat up against the wall, eyes open, but no trademark smile plastered across his face. He looked concerned.

"Thanks for restoring me, Fionn," he said evenly. "But I had that Troll exactly where I wanted him. That Elf had no right to steal my kill!"

Shela and Fionn exchanged a wry look of doubt, but Eilidh marveled at the man's confidence.

Oh good, now Eilidh is impressed with a guy who just got belted thirty feet through the air.

The thought made Shela laugh at Eilidh's naivety. Hopefully Fionn could teach the poor Warden a few things, because all Shela knew was that she would not be teaching the young woman anything. The Bard had enough to deal with.

"Okay, Liam. That is more than enough time on your arse. Up you get," said Shela as she grabbed him by the wrists and helped him up.

"Thank you, Bard, but I could have done that myself," he said, dusting himself off, his expensive black armor now coated in dust.

Shela rolled her eyes at the man. In truth, even if Liam had died, Fionn or Shela, or even Eilidh, could have rescued his soul from death and repaired his broken body. Of course, that arduous process took time and concentration, two things that the Troll would not have afforded them. Either way, she was glad to have the Blademaster with them, because all things considered, Liam had bravery and some skill with the sword. They would need that if they were to find Gavin. Also, had Eilidh not mentioned something earlier about looking for her lost love down deep in the Labyrinth?

Mulling these thoughts over and thinking about how to combine their quests, Shela and the others wandered back over to the Elf and Lurikeen who were still going at it tooth and nail.

Maybe they would stop pestering each other long enough to help the Celts complete their quests. Shela certainly hoped so.

**Chapter 10**

The vast labyrinthine pathways appeared unrelentingly endless, yet Shela still insisted that she knew where the group was heading. Eilidh had explained as accurately as possible where the cave-in had occurred that had separated her from her love, Ruaidhri, a Champion of Hibernia. Quickly claiming superior knowledge of the Labyrinth's layout, Shela had taken the lead.

In fact, even before that conversation, Shela, the only Bard amongst the adventurers, had automatically assumed command. The inexperienced Warden had not spent much time fighting alongside others of her realm, but was confused why the weakest member of the group would lead them. Surely the powerful Eldritch, Bob, or the dashing Blademaster, Liam, would have been a better choice. Nobody else seemed to object, so perhaps Bards often navigated for others.

_Apparently I have much to learn._

This obvious thought became more and more apparent as the group pushed on quietly through empty corridor after empty corridor. The Druid, Fionn, who was also Shela's twin sister, incessantly approached Eilidh to teach her yet another new spell of regrowth magic. Of course, Eilidh accepted the advice and lessons as a necessary evil, but the sheer amount of ancient knowledge was far too great to absorb all at once.

"So, Eilidh, repeat back to me the spell for curing a realm mate of a wasting disease," Fionn whispered. Shela had ordered everyone to be quiet in order to avoid as much needless confrontation as possible, but Eilidh had not noticed any signs of life on this leg of their journey.

"Alright," replied Eilidh, who then fumbled the curing words out.

Despite her difficulty with the wording of the spell, Fionn smiled in that ever-present supportive fashion and said, "Very good. Now try to cure Kearney."

The wolf shot a quick glance at Fionn, hearing his name, but not sure what she wanted. Eilidh then saw the large animal stare at her, as if begging her not to accidentally do something terrible to him.

_But of course he doesn't know what we are talking about. Or does he?_

Mildly perplexed at the idea, Eilidh stood still and focused on Kearney, reaching out to connect their natural life-forces. Never before had she sought to make such a spiritual union with a beast, but he shared the spirit of Hibernia with her, and she found the intersection of their souls far easier than she would have imagined.

The feeling of his unease was painfully apparent, but Eilidh felt fairly confident that she could squeeze the words out correctly. What was the worst that she could do anyway?

She avoiding that thought quickly, not quite sure what a mispronounced word could do to the poor animal.

In that space, everything around them faded from her perspective. Only Eilidh and Kearney existed. The spell rolled off her tongue quietly and far more smoothly than before. The tingling sensation of the transfer of power between them broke her concentration and she lost the connection with the wolf. She opened her eyes and saw that she had held onto Kearney for long enough apparently. Ripples of the magic twisted softly around the wolf, who had probably felt their healing effects many times before.

But that was when his master, Fionn, had cured him, not some random Warden. A smile broke across her face as she and Fionn now trotted to catch up with the rest of their party. What an amazing feeling that was! To think, she had just cured a disease. Well, if Kearney had actually been diseased, she would have cured him, but still, she had seen the magic float around him and then dissipate, taking any maladies with it.

"You did well, Eilidh," whispered her proud teacher with a grin.

"Thank you, Fionn."

Shela stopped ahead and glowered at the pair of giggly women.

"If you two are done trying to summon the Minotaur army after us, we will continue," she snapped quietly.

Despite the low volume of the words, they slapped Eilidh in the face with a tone of authority that she had never heard before. She stood stunned for a moment before recalling that Ruaidhri had once explained the power in a Bard's voice. They could scream with enough intensity to disorient the enemy. Now Eilidh believed it, still waiting for the stars to clear from her vision.

Common sense fought to keep her mind in a positive light, but images of her lost Ruaidhri sought to drag her down into deep and dark recesses of her mind. Her recent magical success now already forgotten, Eilidh wallowed in a sudden sadness.

_Will I ever find you, Ruaidhri? What will I do without you?_

Shela continued on, pushing the group into a new area of the Labyrinth. The style of the construction of the walls changed abruptly. The carvings etched into the stone conjured more memories from the last few days with Ruaidhri. Déjà vu forcefully struck Eilidh, visions of the cave collapse appearing far too real. The pain of separation welled up, renewed in its vigor by her weakened state of mind.

"What's wrong?" asked Fionn.

The Druid put a comforting hand on Eilidh's trembling shoulder, but the Warden felt no respite.

"This is where I lost him," she mumbled.

"We are very close to one of the Minotaur shrines. It is at a major intersection, so perhaps you will recall the way that you went from there?" asked Shela indifferently.

Eilidh glared at her leader, but said nothing.

"Look, we all have a stake in this, Eilidh. We are trying to find your friend and we are trying to locate my brother. Help me to help you," Shela said, turning her hands up in a surrendering gesture.

The Warden looked to Fionn, then to Liam. Both returned her gaze with sympathy. The Elf Mentalist, Aelfraed, simply stood behind the group, seemingly apathetic. Bob, the mighty Lurikeen Eldritch, shuffled his feet across the dusty floor, his eyes finding the cracks in the floor quite intriguing.

"I am not sure," Eilidh finally admitted.

The realization hurt to vocalize. What was she doing? She had no idea where Ruaidhri may be. He was almost certainly dead, lying under a pile of collapse stone. Alone.

Shela started walking off, not looking back to offer a kind word.

_How can she be so cold?_

Fionn produced a piece of scented cloth and wiped away the tears forming in Eilidh's agonized eyes. Slight reassurance eked through the darkness fogging her mind. They silently fell into step behind the assertive Bard.

They reached a large crossroads, two great hallways combining in a T-shape, with a great cavern opening off of the top of the T. In the center of the junction stood a pillar of polished stone, glinting in the uneven light of the torches. Eilidh peered closely at the series of intricate runes carved expertly into the crafted rock. Fionn lowered her head and whispered into Eilidh's ear.

"This is an obelisk. In the old days, these stones were powered by the magic of the Minotaurs and anyone who touched it could teleport to other areas of this mazy dungeon," she explained. She sighed before adding, "Unfortunately for us, they no longer work. Nobody seems to know why."

Moving past the obelisk, Eilidh looked up into the great space attached to the crossroads. On the left wall stood what she was sure was once a great monument to a Minotaur god. Now all that remained were ancient scorch marks where someone had presumably burned everything associated with the religious site.

"So now that we are here at the Shrine of Nethuni and do not have a clear path to take, how deep do you want to go here?" asked Bob, speaking up for what seemed like the first time.

"What do you mean?" replied Shela, exasperated. Eilidh knew that she had disappointed the Bard by not knowing where to go next.

"I mean that we are looking for two people who could be anywhere in this damned place. I am not sure how far you have really gone to explore this dungeon, Shela, but I can assure you that we will not just randomly run into your brother or her friend," he said, sticking a thumb in Eilidh's direction.

Shela now looked troubled and Eilidh sensed an irritation growing in the Bard. Shela spoke through clenched teeth.

"So what would you suggest?"

"I suggest that we skip this level of the maze altogether and drop down towards the submerged sections."

"Why would going deeper get us any closer to locating our lost ones?" asked Fionn.

Bob turned to her and explained, "We know the general area that Eilidh lost Roory or Rory or-"

"It's Ruaidhri," Eilidh interjected.

"Yes, right, Ruaidhri. If our young Warden followed her path back out towards the higher levels of the Labyrinth, then that means that her companion must have delved deeper into the darker sections."

Now a deep silence covered the party as they each thought about the Lurikeen's suggestion.

"I agree."

Everyone turned to face the Elf, Aelfraed.

"Had he survived the ceiling collapse, he would have been forced downward. That is where we should now go."

"And I suppose that Bob has a shortcut, then?" Shela asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," he replied smugly. "Follow me, please."

Eilidh could see the fire in Shela's eyes. Apparently the Bard really did not care for taking orders from others, but she fell into step behind the Lurikeen as he approached a large cylindrical pillar of stone that supported the high ceiling.

"You see, there is a crack under this support," Bob said, pointing at the base of the pillar. "We can slide right down through this section of the floor and jump down into the level below us."

"How much of a fall is that going to be?" asked Fionn.

"Nothing that you cannot fix, good Druid," Bob said with a reassuring smile.

That did not sit well with Eilidh, despite the Lurikeen's suddenly charming demeanor.

"Hold on a minute. You want us to jump down and what, break our legs?"

Bob kept smiling, but had a truly inquisitive look on his face, but no hint of condescension.

"You are a Warden, my dear. Surely you have intentionally sustained injury in order to reach a certain goal? You are more than capable of healing yourself afterwards."

The thought of deliberately inflicting pain on herself as an excuse to use a healing spell had indeed never occurred to Eilidh.

_ Could I even hold my concentration long enough to perform the spell if I had two broken legs? I am not sure about that._

The group clambered up onto the square base of the gigantic pillar and edged around to the backside, hidden from view of the main chamber. Eilidh followed close behind Bob as he easily slunk into a fissure formed between the back wall and the base of the pillar. He paused in the gap for a moment and turned back to Eilidh.

"Just watch your step here. It's a bit slippery, possibly even treacherous."

Before Eilidh could respond, he took a single step and disappeared from view with a shout of what sounded like genuine excitement. The noise of sliding gravel echoed out of the slim space and then she thought a sharp cry of profanity could be heard.

"Get on with it, Eilidh," Shela urged.

Eilidh stepped down into the crack and saw utter darkness inside. She could not even tell how steep the decline was, even when she had slipped on her first step and had started sliding uncontrollably down into the dark hole. She screamed and reached out her hands and feet, desperately seeking purchase, but the crack had widened dramatically as she fell. Looking down at her useless feet, Eilidh saw a dim bluish light growing beneath her quickly until she was enveloped in it and freefalling through the air.

Her body rotated of its own accord as she looked down and saw the watery floor rushing up towards her. She must have fallen from a height at least ten times her own. No air left in her lungs, she panicked and gasped for air to scream once more, but she failed. She righted herself as her feet crashed into the shallow stream of water, barely a hand's breadth deep.

Pain rocketed through Eilidh and she cried out, her face partially submerged in the dirty water. Powerful hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her up. Her vision filled with a terrible sight as she saw her battered legs dragging behind her, shattered and bleeding everywhere. Bone protruded in every direction as she screamed fearfully, her mind completely blank with terror.

While she watched, her legs glowed brightly, covered in ribbons of white and blue light, and she could feel the soothing words of Fionn nearby. She closed her eyes and listened as the ameliorating chant of Shela joined the Druid's calm voice. The sounds faded away and all she could hear were feet sloshing and people talking.

"She'll be fine," she heard Shela say, a bit indignantly.

"Shut up, Bard. What are you doing down here with such an inexperienced Warden?" demanded a new and unknown voice.

Eilidh opened her eyes and stood up to find a giant of a Firbolg growling and towering over Shela's defiant form. The Bard's eyes shifted for a moment to look at Eilidh and the Firbolg followed her gaze.

"I mean no disrespect, Warden, but this is a dangerous place for you," he said.

Despite not appreciating the contents of his words, Eilidh could sense genuine concern in his voice. Why did he care if she suffered? Even Eilidh could see that this Firbolg stood amongst the strongest in the land. An enormous two-handed broadsword protruded from a sheath on his back and just the sight of it both terrified and intrigued Eilidh. Who could effectively wield such a weapon?

"I will be fine, thank you," she replied uneasily. After taking a moment to right herself, she added, "We are searching for my lost friend."

The thought of Ruaidhri once again sought to crack her composure and despite her best efforts to fight the feelings, she could see that this Firbolg sensed her despair. Unfortunately, the resolve on his face told her that he would not be joining them.

"I can only tell you that I have been here for a couple of hours and not seen any other Hibernians. Only the guardians of the Dracolich roam these halls," he explained.

Timid, but determined, Eilidh asked, "Will you help us?"

Without skipping a beat, the mighty Firbolg responded flatly, "No. I have other business here."

"And exactly what might that be?" demanded Shela.

Eilidh guessed that Shela too saw the use in having a powerful Firbolg Hero (at least, he looked like a Hero) on their side. He seemed irritated at the Bard's question.

"My business is my own, Bard," he stated. He pointed a large hand at Liam and said, "This Celt looks like a decent enough Blademaster, so you will be fine." Liam's face lit up with abject smugness at the partial compliment.

The Firbolg carefully examined each of the group members and seemed satisfied with his decision to leave them to their own devices. Eilidh once more considered why this Firbolg even cared to justify his actions in this case.

When his eyes reached Bob, his gaze narrowed, but the Firbolg said nothing. Once more, the Eldritch was shuffling his feet and staring at the water-soaked ground.

A high-pitched scream pierced the air from downstream and the Firbolg immediately sprinted in that direction. He moved with incredible litheness for such a large fellow. Over his shoulder, he yelled back at them.

"I will handle this." After a pause, he added, "You should leave. Now."

Eilidh and the others just looked at each other in confusion as the Hero charged off without them. Shela climbed up out of the shallow stream and pointed at a gouge in the blue-green tunnel walls. The floating reflection of the dingy water on the walls captivated the Warden as she followed the Bard.

Shela paused at the opening to the crack in the wall and turned to address the group.

"Forget about him. We will move on with our quest and we will be fine."

Fionn and Eilidh exchanged a worried glance as the group moved into the fissure behind the Bard.

Liam pulled up behind Eilidh and whispered, "Is she trying to reassure us? Or just convince herself?"

Eilidh's eyes widened at the Blademaster's strangely sage words, but Liam quickly smiled in that overly charming way of his and added, "Do not fear, Eilidh. I shall protect you."

She just nodded and followed him into the dark.

**Chapter 11**

The weary Hibernians rested in the shadow of the narrow slice in the thick wall. Inexorable sounds of ceaselessly dripping water grated on nerves as they sat in silence. Eilidh wanted nothing more than to find sleep behind her tired eyelids, but closing her eyes caused the awful thoughts of Ruaidhri's fate to intensify. They had had no real direction to begin with, but now thanks to Bob the Eldritch, they had traveled far too deep into the Labyrinth.

_ Ruaidhri, why did we listen to him? Will I ever escape this place?_

A frail sense of peace settled over the young Warden. The feeling proved short-lived as sudden nightmares jolted her awake.

"I see that Eilidh has decided to join the rest of us in the land of the conscious," Shela quipped irritably.

With a frown, Eilidh said, "What? I just closed my eyes for a moment."

Most of the members of the group stifled a chuckle at this. Eilidh stood up frantically.

"What's so funny?" she demanded, her face reddening.

Liam placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged his gesture away. He shrugged in return and backed off. Bob's voice echoed quietly in the dark space that the group occupied.

"Your snores could have awakened the dead, my dear child."

Now her face turned the color of beetroot as the group laughed quietly. Why had they not woken her up?

_ This is so embarrassing._

With a smile, Fionn reassured the poor girl.

"Don't worry, Eilidh. We didn't want to wake you since you have been down here longer than any of us. You needed the rest."

"How long did I sleep, Fionn?"

The Druid looked around dramatically at their surroundings with a smile.

"Well, we do not have the advantage of the sun's position to help us measure the passage of time in this hellish place, but I would guess that you slept for about an hour."

Eilidh nodded and sat down once more. A quick glance at the group revealed a missing person.

"Where is Aelfraed?" she asked.

After a moment of silence, Bob spoke up.

"That is a very good question, young one."

He wandered to the edge of Eilidh's vision and seemed to peer farther down the small passage. Despite his apparent dislike for the pompous Elf, Bob's face showed concern at her unannounced absence. For all of his flowery and borderline condescending speech, the powerful Lurikeen did seem genuinely worried about the wellbeing of his companions.

Shela plonked her athletic frame down near Eilidh and the Warden could have sworn she heard the Bard mutter, "Just who does he think he is? Not helping us."

The quiet rant continued, but Eilidh could only hear muted and garbled sounds. Bob on the other hand seemed to have no problem hearing the diatribe. He spoke without turning away from his vigil at the mouth of the small space formed by the crack in the wall.

"His name is Cadman, Shela. And he is possibly the greatest Hero to ever fight in the Realm Wars."

Now that he had everyone's attention, he faced the group before continuing.

"Of course, that distinction does not justify his ungentlemanly reaction. His letting of our ragtag team of adventurers delve so far into the depths of the Labyrinth is downright irresponsible on his part."

Confused faces showed a failure to grasp his meaning.

"Friends, he is a Hero of the Realm of Hibernia! His every instinct should be to drop whatever task he is currently engaged in and help those in need. Something is amiss here."

Fionn spoke up.

"So why is he here in the first place? This place is a very remote area for a solo Hero to hunt in. And what did he say he was hunting? The guardians of the Dracolich? I don't even know what that is."

"All good questions, dear Druid," Bob replied. "I suspect that the Firbolg has an ulterior motive for his presence in this region. It would appear that a great Hero such as Cadman would have no use for hunting such monsters as the Dracolich's minions. I have fought with them on occasion. They are strong and exceedingly vicious—"

"Yes, just like the brood that you people seem so intent on alerting to our untenable position," announced Aelfraed quietly, stepping silently from behind Bob.

The group jumped in fright and Kearney barked in surprise and agitation. Giant wolves did not care for surprises. Bob grasped his heart and faced the Elf.

"Thank you for trying to stop my heart with fright, Elf, but your plan has failed. I still live!"

Liam laughed, but the rest of the group sat on pins and needles, waiting for the elegant Aelfraed to explain herself. After a painfully long and deliberate delay, she proceeded in the calm, unhurried manner of the Elves, for whom time never seemed a pertinent issue.

"This passage opens into a vast cavern not far from here. The mouth of the tunnel is about forty feet above the cavern floor, so in order to cross the cavern, we will need to traverse a series of natural bridges formed by some interesting rock formations."

Liam piped up, "Well that doesn't seem so difficult."

"What's the problem here, Aelfraed?" Shela asked with her usual brusqueness.

"The problem, young Bard, is the garrison of the Dracolich's Drakoran guards marching on the cavern floor," the Elf explained sharply.

Eilidh could see Shela's mouth twitch in anger at being called young and being talked down to in such a way. To the woman's credit, she did not rise to the Elf's abrasive tone. To the Elf's credit, despite not looking a day over twenty in the years of a Celt, she could very well have been double Shela's age.

"I'm surprised that none of them heard the racket that you people produced," Aelfraed added, veritably spitting out the end of the statement

The words "you people" rubbed Eilidh the wrong way. This Elf had overstepped her boundaries, but nobody seemed confident enough to confront Aelfraed on the subject. Eilidh was poorly versed in the social hierarchy of Hibernia, but why did an Elf have such impunity to speak in such racist tones?

An uncomfortable silence befell the group, but Aelfraed the Mentalist simply stood there, tall and elegant, exuding the perfect confidence of her ancient people. Her thin frame belied the powerful magical strength residing inside. The rumors in Hibernia told of Mentalists attacking the mind of the enemy, either causing them to fight amongst themselves or withering their conscious self to the point of complete uselessness. A slow and painful death awaited those who suffered at the hands of such a magician.

Eilidh observed Aelfraed and saw only this stately, yet arrogant Elf. The group had yet to actually witness the Elf perform any kind of magic. Was she in fact as powerful as advertised? All at once, the Warden's vision filled with a fiery image of Aelfraed's furious face. Eilidh's head shot back in recoil, smacking her helmet against the tunnel wall.

And then the moment passed. The hellish face had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Aelfraed still stood still as a statue, looking off away from Eilidh. Bewildered, Eilidh looked around at the rest of her companions, all of whom, except the Elf, now regarded her with slight concern.

A stern warning voiced itself inside her head.

"Tell them nothing."

Definitely Aelfraed's voice, yet the Elf had yet to even physically look at the Warden. Was this some cheap parlor trick or a true sign of power? Eilidh did not care to find out and simply shrugged at her group, not needing to feign the embarrassment glowing on her cheeks.

Liam stood up.

"Right. Well, I like the sound of these Drakoran guards, so let's go find some, shall we?" he asked in his brash and enthusiastic way.

Now Aelfraed turned to face him.

"I would urge you to keep quiet in the cavern and just cross the bridges with as little chance of confrontation as possible," she said.

Liam raised an eyebrow and gave a dashing smile, but Aelfraed cut him off.

"I am serious, Celt. Do not get us all killed in there."

Liam's face scrunched up at the implication. Upon realizing that Eilidh was watching him, the man's ever-present ego recovered quickly enough to flash a dastardly smirk. The young woman just rolled her eyes in response. This Blademaster was unbelievable!

The group shuffled quietly through the remainder of the narrow tunnel and quickly found themselves in the great space described very accurately by the Elf. An enormous cavern opened before them, with great twisting bridges of rock spanning a deep trench. Giant glowing rocks, the likes of which Eilidh had never seen before, provided light for the large space. The light revealed a few strange creatures milling around in the trench floor.

Their height was indeterminable from her vantage point, but their appearance scared the young Celt. They were mostly grey all over, mostly humanoid in shape, and mostly terrifying in nature. A pair of tattered wings stood out from their backs, and the light glinted off of jagged talons and claws. A large head with a long beak-like mouth snapped constantly as the Drakoran guards traversed the trench aimlessly.

"There were far more only moments ago," Aelfraed insisted quietly.

"We should still be quiet in crossing the bridges to that plateau on the other side," added Bob. "These creatures may not look like much, but those mouths contain rows of razor-sharp teeth."

The small Lurikeen eyed Liam in particular as he warned the group. The Blademaster simply grinned, not used to sneaking around like a common stealther. Eilidh could tell the young man was itching for a more direct solution to their problem.

Aelfraed stepped out onto the ledge and cautiously approached the first bridge. The Elf paused and slowly turned to the group, a finger to her mouth, reminding them of the danger. A few of the Drakoran guards roamed in the space below, also reminding the group to watch their step.

Eilidh followed closely behind Liam, feeling no comfort from the Blademaster's overconfident attitude. What was a Dracolich anyway? And so what if they could cross the chasm? They would not be any closer to recovering Ruaidhri. The sadness weighed down on her as she turned to find Fionn and Shela physically urging Bob towards the bridge. Negative emotions now cast aside temporarily, Eilidh saw the small Lurikeen at first resist their persistence, looking around the great space frantically.

All at once, the Eldritch gathered himself and strode quietly past Eilidh and inserted himself between her and Liam. As he passed, Eilidh could see rivulets of sweat on the Lurikeen's face and neck. The temperature this deep underground lacked the soothing effects of nature's breeze, yet Eilidh would not have called it stiflingly hot. Bob walked on in front of her, very close behind Liam, staring straight into the Celt's lower back.

_ Odd._

The troop continued in single file, only stopping when Aelfraed paused and ducked, intensely examining the lie of the land before her. Before long, the group crested the first part of the stone bridge and encountered an unforeseen T-junction.

The bridge did not travel straight over to the other side of the cavern.

The left fork of the split seemed to curve away from their destination, terminating in the ground below. The right path led straight to what Eilidh now recognized as an ancient Minotaur teleportation obelisk. Her hopes flourished briefly before she recalled Fionn's words that the once magical stones had lost their power. Why could they not just catch a break for once?

Following their new apparent leader, the Hibernians slowly edged their way down the narrowing path, careful not to disturb loose rocks in the process. In plain view below them, a handful of the vicious creatures still milled around, oblivious to the potential meal sneaking above them.

Before reaching the obelisk, which stood near the side wall of the cavern, Aelfraed halted once more and peered over the edge of the rock bridge. After a moment of contemplation, she motioned for the group to follow as she deftly threw her legs over the side of their walkway and disappeared from view. Eilidh had worn a dress on many occasions and she had absolutely no idea how the lithe Elf had managed the feat so elegantly in her long magician's robe. The Warden had shown less gentile agility just clambering into the back of a horse-drawn carriage in a dress.

One by one, the group crept over the edge and discovered the sloping column of rock heading to the cavern floor. Eilidh carefully placed each hand and foot, desperately not wanting to be the novice who slipped and crashed into her friends below. She paused for a moment when she noticed that she essentially dangled out in open air, twenty-five feet from the floor below. A look down revealed a very pale Lurikeen gripping the natural pillar with white knuckles.

Liam apparently had picked up on Bob's hesitation and had climbed back up to the poor Eldritch. After some increasingly severe prodding, the Lurikeen inched his way onto the Celt's back and wrapped his small arms around Liam's throat in an unintentional death grip. Eilidh stifled a smile as Liam's eyes bulged in surprise. After a few moments of reassurance, Bob loosened his grip just enough that his rescuer could breathe again.

The rock column twisted out as the decline became less severe, making traversing the pillar much easier. At the bottom, Eilidh stepped onto the cavern floor and froze. A snarling chattering of teeth reverberated from every direction. Despite her earlier feelings on the temperature, cold sweat began streaking down the back of her neck. She dared not move, yet she knew that she was standing out in the open.

_ What do I do now, Ruaidhri?_

She closed her eyes, not knowing what else to do. Those vicious creatures were swarming and would tear her apart at any moment. A strong grip latched onto the shoulder of her armor and almost lifted her off her feet. She stumbled in that direction and opened her eyes to find Liam forging ahead with her in tow, half-stumbling along behind him. She slapped his hand away and they both moved forward to a series of switchbacks etched into the rock of the far wall.

Only in the relative safety of her group did she turn and look back for the hoards of guards pursuing them, their snarls still filling her ears.

But she saw nothing.

Aelfraed saw the look of confusion on the young woman's face and the Mentalist's voice rang clear as a bell inside Eilidh's head. "Their foul noises echo off of the cavern floor and walls, creating a sensation of the animals being all around you. Do not fear this."

With a nod, Eilidh turned back to the open space, reassuring herself that none of the beasts had followed them. In fact, still only a handful of the Dracolich's guards roamed the open space, and they had all congregated at the opposite end of the great hall. Aelfraed signaled for the group to march quietly once more and started to follow the winding switchbacks up the wall.

At the top, Aelfraed put up a hand and lay down flat on the dusty floor. Eilidh initially appreciated the Elf's disregard for her own appearance, but then recanted this thought when the Elf stood once more without a speck of dust sticking to her fantastically adorned robe. The Mentalist gestured for none to follow and disappeared over the lip of the path.

The seconds passed painstakingly. The tension built in Eilidh's aching muscles, the pause allowing her body to emphasize its displeasure at her most recent exploits. She would have time to rest fully when they all died to whatever calamity awaited them next. The dire thoughts of Ruaidhri now played constantly through her mind. Even gazing upon Bob's terrified face brought no distraction to the dismayed Celt. In fact, his fear did not concern her at all, one way or the other.

Aelfraed reappeared and gathered the group together.

She whispered, "It seems that we have made a slight miscalculation."

"We have made a miscalculation? You-" interrupted Shela.

"This is no time for semantics, Celt," snapped the Elf. "The ruler of all of these devilish abominations is resting about fifty yards from our position."

Liam grinned.

"So what's the problem? Let's start at the top of the food chain," he declared, already rising and unsheathing his blades.

Aelfraed grabbed him and with a surprising amount of strength, thrust him back down.

"You do not comprehend my words, naïve Celt. We alone cannot win that fight. Zhulrathuul the Dracolich is one of the ancient dragons and is a ferocious beast unlike any you have ever encountered. Attacking with anything less than twenty-five or thirty allies would be nothing short of suicide."

Something tapped gently on Eilidh's foot. She turned away from the Elf and saw a grim-faced Bob looking at her, his eyes pleading for help. Unfortunately for him, she had no reassurance to give. Eilidh turned back to the conversation at hand.

"Well, can we sneak past the dragon?" asked Fionn.

"No, I do not believe so. There are Dracolich Necromancers nearby who are watching the path approaching Zhulrathuul's lair," explained Aelfraed.

Once again the tapping started on Eilidh's boot. She turned and saw Bob's pathetic face once more, but this time his arm was outstretched away, pointing over the edge of the switchback.

_ Does he want to run away? What is his problem? Is he not a mighty Eldritch? Why the fear?_

She once more turned away from him, but almost immediately he shifted up behind her. His small hands gripped her head suddenly and she could feel his fear through his clammy palms. Eilidh struggled at first, but he gently moved her head to the edge of the cliff, giving her a view of the cavern floor and the bridges above.

A scream broached her lips before Bob stifled her with his slender hands. The group immediately joined her at the edge of the cliff. Fionn gasped and Shela groaned.

The Dracolich's forces had quietly formed ranks on the cavern floor. The silent monsters observed the stranded Hibernians with an eerie calm that Eilidh judged unnatural for their kind. She did not know much about these vicious creatures, but their poise seemed all wrong.

Bob finally spoke.

"Look! The obelisk!"

Their heads followed his outstretched arms in unison, to the broken obelisk that they had passed on the bridge. Apparently the teleportation stone was not as broken as they had once thought. A constant stream of Hibernians, Albions, and Midgardians materialized and flowed out of the obelisk, filling the bridge with a screaming hoard of violence.

The Dracolich's army below growled and snarled in a terrifying battle cry and charged the bottom of the cliff, seeking the switchbacks.

Instinctively, the Hibernian group took a collective step back, but then remembered that the mighty Zhulrathuul and his guardians lurked in the shadows behind them. To Eilidh's increasing dismay, these guards now poured out of small caves along the cliff wall, screaming and loping towards them. The Warden sank to her knees and bowed her head.

_Finally the time has arrived, Ruaidhri. I will soon meet you in the world beyond this one._

**Chapter 12**

Cadman the Hero strode through waterlogged passages in search of his prey. Making no effort to hide his presence or intentions, the giant Firbolg noisily waded through rank water that rose almost as high as the tops of his boots. His magnificent two-handed sword led the way.

The halls of the Labyrinth resounded with the echoing cacophony of his feet splashing in the dirty water, yet he had encountered no guardians of the Dracolich. When those novice Hibernians had dropped from the ceiling and almost crushed him, he had suspected that Zhulrathuul's Drakoran guards would infuriatingly go into hiding. At least, of course, until they had sent scouts to spy on the Hibernian strength, of which there was little in that group. The guards' cries that had beckoned Cadman away from those weak Hibernians could easily have been a call to retreat. Nobody from the surface that Cadman had ever encountered spoke the ancient languages of the Labyrinth's depths, so it was anyone's guess.

All Cadman knew was that now the Drakorans were nowhere to be found.

Once again he found himself sloshing through the greenish blue soup where the Hibernians had appeared. Before their interruption, he had discovered a convenient loop of tunnels that had offered bountiful monsters to slay in his quest to hone his skills. Now the halls stood still and quiet, other than the incessant dripping of water from every crack in every wall. Cadman could already feel his combat abilities slipping with the useless inactivity.

Taking full advantage of his undesired idle time, Cadman rested his large frame on a slightly elevated natural step of blue stone that ran along the length of the foot of the wall. Leaning back against the moss-covered wall, a sudden weariness descended over his mind, clouding his senses. His monumental head slowly nodded forward as long-ignored fatigue started to impose its will.

Cadman jerked awake and glanced around anxiously. How long had he been out?

Of course, it was impossible to tell the time in the dank reaches of the Labyrinth, but he suspected that his eyes had only closed for a moment. Looking around again, Cadman noticed for the first time that the passageway streaming along in front of him appeared to have no light source. Other tunnels in the once-great city of the Minotaurs featured grand magical torches or even just regular man-made torches placed by more recent explorers.

A memory flowed smoothly through his groggy brain.

About one year ago, Cadman had led a handful of equally elite soldiers through a newly discovered tunnel. They had received word that a contingent of fighters from Albion had been spotted entering the new passage with the intent of raiding the Hibernian archaeologists working diligently to loot the grave of some minor Minotaur priest. Cadman's crew had no interest in the moral or ethical issues brought up by assisting realm mates engaged in illegal activities, but they did enjoy a good fight with the Albs.

The group had walked brazenly down the tunnel, dousing all of the flames hung on the walls by the explorers below. Nearing the grave site in question, Cadman had observed a scene that would have turned the stomachs of most. In his mind's eye, he could still see it all so clearly and the emotions returned just as strongly as ever.

Blood of fallen Hibernians coated the walls of the small crypt in gory splatters. Beyond the mutilated corpses littering the floor, seven or eight Albions taunted and beat a small, bloodied female Elf. She refused to give them the satisfaction of a scream as they maliciously stripped her down. Cadman did not need his imagination to ascertain their grim intentions.

With a battle cry of raw rage, the Hero had launched himself and his small band down the tunnel, charging with weapons drawn. They continued to toss down the torches, darkening the space around them, hiding their numbers. Cadman still smiled at what the Albions must have felt, staring up the passageway and seeing ghostly forms screaming towards them, the tunnel closing around them as darkness rushed with the incoming Hibernians.

As any good Hero would, Cadman reveled in the action of saving the poor Elf from a fate worse than death. Those supposedly holy Clerics and Paladins of Albion had deserved an end far more painful than the prompt dispatch given by Cadman's companions, but at the end of the day, one Hibernian life had been spared.

_If only I was strong enough to save them all._

The vision of the past faded from view and Cadman now more closely examined the slime coating the walls of the wet, expansive tunnel. Was he imagining things, or did the green muck itself emit a slight glow? Could this slick mess generate some form of bioluminescence? Cadman had no knowledge of such things, but the idea fascinated him. How could a plant (if that was really what this was) grow in the absence of sunlight? The questions just mounted up and up, leading nowhere.

Focusing on matters of a more relevant nature, Cadman thought about the Hibernians who had passed through the tunnel earlier. What had they said they were doing? Searching for some friends? Stupid. None of those Hibs had the experience or know-how to successfully navigate the Labyrinth. A year ago, Cadman would have felt obligated to lead the band of novices around and perhaps teach them some useful lessons in survival. The big Firbolg sighed deeply. A lot had happened since then, since his final mission.

His eyes started to droop once more as he sat and listened to the quiet lapping of the murky water around his boots. With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine sitting in a glade, hearing the soothing murmurs of a crystal-clear stream.

Very quickly, Cadman was fording a river in the Frontier region of Hibernia, seven young apprentices splashing behind him. They had each recently graduated from their respective schools of training and then transferred into the care of Cadman, a Hero of the second highest rank attainable in the Hibernian army. The mighty Firbolg would have much rather remained on the frontlines of the Realm Wars with Midgard and Albion, but he accepted the wisdom of his king. Experienced fighters and leaders needed to introduce the most promising recruits to the defense of Hibernia. These students had been entrusted to Cadman as part of a fast-track program to get them operating at a high level as quickly as possible. Lesser students went to lesser teachers.

This simple reconnaissance mission should have provided no challenge for even the least of Cadman's charges. Each had proven very capable within their professions and Cadman had to fight to contain a smile as they worked so hard to impress him with their abilities. He would never have guessed that teaching would bring him any joy, but he had to admit that seeing the fruits of his labor growing before his eyes had a certain attraction.

Watching his understudies cross the river, Cadman noticed the sky darken severely. Within seconds, he found himself immersed in a dense, thick fog. The sudden sounds of battle roared around him, but he could see nothing. Running in every direction revealed nothing. His own hand was not visible in front of his face. The solid darkness gripped him bodily and weighed him down, forcing the powerful Firbolg to his knees.

The battle now whispered, fading away into the distance. His cries went unanswered. Where were his companions? What was happening?

_Kill me! Come back here and kill me!_

Where did those words come from? Did he say them?

Now only the bubbling flow of the stream remained, a relative silence compared to the violent trauma that had passed.

Cadman's eyes shot open and he instantly leapt to his feet. Cold sweat poured across every inch of his body, a stark contrast to the heat surrounding him. Swinging his mighty sword around in a circle, the Hero searched for his assailants.

Only the gentle sounds of the Labyrinth's murky waters greeted him.

With a weary sigh, Cadman sheathed his weapon and placed a hand against the slime-covered wall. He leaned forward, head bowed, shame washing over him anew. The nightmares visited his sleep with alarmingly increasing frequency. The Druids had said his pain would ease with time, but there was no escape from the constant mental reminders of his failure.

Mercifully, the humiliating feelings of defeat and loss passed quickly. The Hero stood up straight and reconsidered his situation. A deep-seated resolve wormed its way up from his inner core, a resolve that could not be held in check by failure alone. The very determination that made Cadman one of the great Heroes of his time now squashed the petty emotions eating at his spirit.

A grim expression fixed itself upon his face, as if the Firbolg's visage had been chiseled from a slab of red granite. A mission had effectively fallen into his lap and he, in his preoccupation and self-pity, had missed a redemptive opportunity. What kind of Hero at the rank of Barun would possibly leave the fate of such an inexperienced group in the hands of a low-ranking Blademaster and a—

A Lurikeen Eldritch bearing the rank of Emerald Ridere.

Cadman slapped himself in the forehead as his memory finally engaged and he recalled the identity of that Lurikeen accompanying the group. Upon seeing the Eldritch, Cadman had felt suspicious. A spell caster only one rank below Cadman diving around in the dangerous reaches of the Labyrinth with a group of novices had not made much sense, but that meant little now.

Frantic to redeem yet another mistake, Cadman rushed after the group, splashing through the shallow water, retracing the steps of the group he had abandoned to the Eldritch.

_ To the traitor._

Grim determination drove the Hero through the crack in the wall that he believed the young group had taken. His heart sank as he realized the destination awaiting him at the end of the passageway.

_ The lair of the Dracolich. The lair of Zhulrathuul._

No noise echoed through the narrow tunnel, so his hopes rose slightly. Perhaps there was still time to save them, time to save himself. If he could reach them before the guardians of the Dracolich awoke their vile master—

He erupted into the gigantic cavern as a wall of sound hit him bodily. Undaunted by the terrible battle cries and ear-piercing screams of the Drakoran army below, Cadman raced across the first section of the natural rock pathway suspended above the cavern floor. He rounded a curve in the elevated bridge and found himself staring at a stream of fighters from every realm, all rushing in the direction that he wished to go. A mixture of Mids, Hibs, and Albs all flowed in a chaotic procession down a ramp to the cavern floor, intermingling with the Dracolich's minions below, but not engaging them.

_Why would the different realms all move together like this? And with creatures of darkness in tow?_

It did not make any sense to the Hero. It was as if all of these parties had one goal in common. Cadman paused to take stock of the situation. From his high vantage point, he could see the conglomeration of supposed enemies all funneling into a series of switchback ramps leading up to Zhulrathuul's lair at the far end of the cavern. And at the top of this path stood a Blademaster and a Warden, standing their ground as best they could. For a moment, Cadman felt a swell of pride. These young defenders of Hibernia were taking advantage of a bottleneck to reduce the power of the enemy's sheer strength of numbers.

His pride waned as a stab of guilt reminded him that he should be up there with them. Hopefully the rest of their group was up on the ledge behind them and not dead under the trampling feet of the enemy. An enemy made up of four different groups that should be fighting each other and not together. In fact, he found it very odd that none of the warriors running past him just one hundred feet away had noticed him or deemed him a threat.

"No matter. I'll make them regret this mistake," Cadman said aloud with a grin, his words lost in the continuous racket of the frenzied army all around him.

The great Firbolg wasted no time and darted forward towards the enemy, his weapon ready to slice a path through the torrent of targets before him. As he ran, another thought occurred to him. Instead of gouging his way through the vast numbers, he instead inserted himself into the wave rushing down towards the cavern floor.

And they completely ignored him. The mindless herd swarmed chaotically and Cadman had to vie for his position, forcing others out of his way to maintain a place on the edge of the pack. Funneling down the ramp, Cadman observed a glazed look on the faces of those around him, their eyes all set on the poor Hibernians fighting above.

Halfway down the ramp, some loose gravel caused Cadman to slip, and the oversized Firbolg fell against a Dwarf in front of him. The squat Mid fell flailing off the edge of the descending path. His cry of surprise was cut short after falling thirty feet onto his head. Despite his scream being lost in the mix of the din all around, the Dwarf's absence apparently drew some attention from those around Cadman. A look into the grim faces surrounding him hinted that the jig was up.

Without waiting for their response, Cadman preemptively swung his great sword in a wide frontal arc, cleaving some space to work in. The hordes collapsed upon him, but the Firbolg pressed forward, ignoring the dings and smacks of various weapons on his expertly crafted armor and the on the giant shield covering his back. Cadman figured that his main goal was to make it up the switchback ramps ahead. Otherwise he would just take down as many enemies with him as possible.

All before him fell in droves as he continued to swing his weapon powerfully back and forth, like he was clearing brush at home. The punishment soaked up by his armor started to take its toll, but the Hero had a trick or two up his sleeve. Cries of anguish around Cadman intensified when he channeled the Spirit of the Hunt, the transformative power of all Heroes of Hibernia. The enemy looked on in dismay as the Firbolg grew another two feet in height and shape-changed into a huge Minotaur-esque combination of Firbolg and mighty stag.

Red eyes burning and wicked antlers twisting all around, Cadman pushed on with renewed vigor, now oblivious to the injuries inflicted by only the relatively few brave enemies who dared attack him. Terrified fighters broke before him, and those remaining felt the wrath of Cadman's enormous blade. He quickly reached the bottom of the path leading up to his goal. Lowering his head, Cadman drove upwards, battering those before him, sending a torrent of enemies off the edge of the inclined pathway.

A stream of enemies still pursued the Hero and when he felt the Spirit of the Hunt fade, a lone Drakoran guardian leapt onto his back, clawing and slashing at his helm. Once again in his natural Firbolg form, Cadman felt the stabs and scratches intensely, but the pain only drove his determination. With a snarl, and without breaking his stride, Cadman reached back and gripped the demon-like monster around the neck. In a sudden and shocking movement, the Firbolg ripped out the beast's throat and tossed it aside as a bloodied shriek erupted and the mutilated guard fell to the floor.

Slashing and crashing through enemies, Cadman burst from the masses and finally found himself facing the group of Hibernians that he had abandoned what seemed like only moments ago. Exhaustion threatened to slow him down, but the adrenaline flowed when the Blademaster spiraled towards Cadman with both blades lashing out. Confused, but not stupid, Cadman expertly parried the attack away and yelled at the Blademaster to stop.

Now the Celt looked confused for only a moment before recognizing the mighty Firbolg. After all, Cadman did not look much like the mangy mob of enemies enveloping the Hibernians. One glance at the gigantic Hero was enough for the average foe to think twice, and usually thrice, about attacking. Using this to his advantage, Cadman loosed a battle roar that eclipsed the screams and cries of the enemy. The enemy frontline hesitated and took a decided step back.

"We need to push them back to get out," he yelled at his new companions, instinctively taking the lead. "We need to move before they wake up the Dracoli—"

His word was interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek of unimaginable proportions. Initially both sides of the fight paused and glanced around anxiously. The cavern grew deathly quiet for a moment. Cadman's weary muscles appreciated the small break as the lingering effects of the Bard's song of invigoration replenished his low endurance reserves. He could see all of his Hibernians were still in one piece, but he suspected that might change on the way out if Zhulrathuul had just awoken.

A second terrifying shriek reverberated around the cavern and the enemy hoards roared in celebration as the monstrous Dracolich ambled onto the wide ledge behind the Hibernians. The ground shook violently under the weight of the enormous bird-like dragon. Cadman's new companions looked to him with genuine fear plastered across their faces, except for the Blademaster. A cocky smile hung confidently on the Celt's face.

A third shriek forced Cadman into action.

"Let's move," he said.

Nobody moved.

"Now!" he yelled in anger.

The enemy ranks had reformed after Cadman's barrage and they had started to push up the switchbacks again. With the slow-moving Dracolich pounding along the ledge behind them, the Hibernians followed Cadman headlong into the waiting jaws of the enemy.

Drakoran guards snapped and clawed at Cadman as he led the way, forming a void around himself with his giant sword. Beside him, the Blademaster spun through attacks and separated heads from shoulders in spectacular showers of blood. Just behind Cadman, the Warden darted to and fro, careening into enemies with her shield, knocking them flat for the Druid's wolf pet to finish off.

The sudden surge of coordination impressed Cadman as he plowed through foe after foe, not taking the time to worry about killing fellow Hibernians in the enemy army. As far as he was concerned, they stopped being Hibs when they attacked his group.

Rocks from above started to fall as the dragon marched right above the escaping Hibernians. Fireballs shot from its mouth, barely missing Cadman multiple times. He pushed on, unaffected. The group reached the cavern floor and ran straight into another wave of winged creatures. Cadman watched in surprise as a large group of the enemy suddenly grabbed at their own heads and writhed around on the ground, screaming horribly.

_ Obviously we have a powerful Mentalist with us._

The wretches scratched at their own heads feverishly enough to break their own skulls, making Cadman's job far easier as he trampled over them, heading towards the ramp leading back up to the bridge they needed to escape. Pushing forward through the droves of attackers, Cadman only paused when the ground under his feet shook so hard that he flipped onto his back. Glancing back he saw the Dracolich had leapt from the top of the ledge straight down to the cavern floor.

Bolts of energy erupted from the dragon, scattering death in every direction. Shearing pain darted through every inch of Cadman's body as the evil energy assaulted him. Through barely open eyes, he could see the enemy regaining its feet and forming up to finish off the incapacitated Hibernians.

"So this is how I die," he mumbled as he feebly raised himself into a crawling position, still unable to give up, despite his current state.

The enemy army must have assembled themselves in suitable numbers, because then Cadman heard a terrible battle cry ring out all around. The ground trembled now with the charging feet of one hundred hell-bent enemies. It was over.

A soft voice pierced the dark, tumultuous noise all around. Cadman turned to see the Druid standing amongst her fallen friends, chanting out what the Hero recognized as the most powerful of healing spells. Knowing that he would be fully recovered in about two seconds, Cadman prepared himself for a final stand against the incoming enemy. They would not take him without obscene losses on their part.

The soothing words of the spell hit him like a mule had kicked him in the backside. The entire group of Hibernians leapt up and charged the enemy, engaging them in a final stand for the scholars to tell of for years to come.

_ As long as one of us lives to tell the tale._

Cadman fought valiantly, slashing enemies in two as they came at him three or four at a time. Their blood now layered his armor in crimson streaks. He looked to his left and saw the Warden charging through a crowd of the enemy untouched. She was yelling something. That stupid girl! It was only a matter of time before they noticed her and killed her.

The Hero in Cadman automatically drove him in her direction, but the enemy swarmed him incessantly, halting his progress. Despite his cries for her to stop, the Warden just kept running, screaming, "Roar" or something to that effect. Cadman did not understand, but he could not dwell on it. The enemy had them surrounded and the dragon Zhulrathuul now approached again, thumping the ground so violently that Cadman could hardly remain upright.

He looked over the enemy army one more time and saw the Warden slip through a crack in the wall, apparently unharmed.

"So perhaps I have saved one," he muttered to himself as he watched his death approach.

_ But yet again, I could not save them all._

To Be Continued


	3. The Midgard Storyline

**Prologue**

In a time long since passed, the three great realms of Albion, Hibernia and Midgard lived in an uneasy peace, brokered by the sheer strength of will of Albion's King Arthur. From his home in Camelot, the capital city of Albion, Arthur presided over an era of prosperity that was unprecedented in the history of the three realms. But it was also a time for resentments and rivalries to simmer below the surface. Arthur's era of peace was about to end...

Albion was the fertile land of the Britons and Highlanders, led by the great King Arthur himself. Along with their mystical Avalonian allies, as well as the Saracens, dark-skinned warriors from the south whom Arthur himself had recruited to the cause, the people of Albion sought to become a mighty kingdom that would bring order to their corner of the world. Unfortunately, not everyone agreed with Arthur's vision.

Midgard was the frozen land of the north, home of the Norsemen, Trolls, Dwarves and Kobolds. The Norsemen were viking raiders, led by King Eiric, who sought to find new lands where they could stake their claim. The hardy Dwarves were their allies, as were the giant, stone-skinned Trolls from the mountains and the small, blue-skinned Kobolds from the Undercity.

These races of Midgard, unable to live off the land of their birth, needed to expand their reach, but Albion, and Arthur, blocked their way.

Hibernia was the magical land of the Celts, fierce warriors who had long been subjugated by their more powerful neighbor, Albion. The Celts, led by Lug Lamfhota allied themselves with the 'old races' of Hibernia, the mighty Firbolgs, the diminutive Lurikeen and the haughty Elves, to free themselves of Albion's long-standing dominion over them. All they needed was an opportunity to show their strength.

On Arthur's death, the realms mourned, for they knew times were about to change for the worse. War came shortly after as Midgard invaded, looking for new lands, Hibernia threw off the yoke of their Albion masters, and Albion sought to defend their homeland against two great aggressors. At stake was not only the future of the realms, but of the frontier lands between them, where powerful magical artifacts known as Relics were housed. Whoever controlled these Relics, controlled the strength and power that their magic provided to an entire realm.

For thirty years now these realms have fought, trading lands, Relics, and lives. The balance of power has shifted back and forth among them, but none of the three realms has ever been able to strike a blow decisive enough to claim a final victory. But times are changing. Midgard's ageing armies have been slowly dwindling in numbers, and Hibernia's forces have suffered several notable defeats. Albion, long under siege, is slowly but surely reaching the brink of victory.

But old enemies lurk beneath the surface, waiting for the right time to strike. And the three realms, weakened by decades of war, are at their most vulnerable. The fate of the realms, and their people, is at stake.

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**Book 1 – The Gathering**

**by Patrick Underhill**

**Chapter 1**

Gruesome roared as he swung his axe and hammer in a sideways arc at the long, bony frame before him. The frore lich screeched in agony as its arm and chest splintered from the force of the troll's blow. The gangly arms and legs of the pale-skinned nightmare flailed as it hissed out its final breath. Gruesome kicked the lifeless husk away with one massive foot even as he turned and leapt past another lich tangled in brambles, its long-clawed fingers raking harmlessly against the studded leather of his armor. His heavily-muscled arms windmilled to bring his weapons to bear on a third ghoul as it clawed at the little shield Blade held high against his body. The old dwarf smashed at the creature with lightning speed, his teeth bared in a ferocious grin. His right eye gleamed with bloodlust, and a worn patch covered the scarred hole of his left. From behind Blade, a small figure chanted in a clear voice and energy poured forth from his hands. Pellien's shaman magic swirled around Blade, healing some wound Gruesome couldn't see. The axe in his left hand cleaved into the lich's shoulder, as his hammer crushed its neck awkwardly to the side. The crack and pop of ancient bones brought a triumphant guffaw from Blade.

The entangled lich hissed and clawed while Gruesome spun around to face it. The dead eyes showed no fear as he arched his powerful shoulders to send the beast back to Hel. The fickle goddess spat these creatures upon Midgard to test its warriors, even as the war with Hibernia and Albion waged in full. Fewer Midgardians were available to cull the numbers of dangerous beasts that roamed the frontier - most able-bodied warriors were in the frontlines. Only the aged or "disobedient" were put to this task. Those deemed unworthy of defending the realm in combat. Gruesome's stony visage sank into a grimace when the air filled with the dust of the lich's long-dried blood.

Gruesome sank to his knees and buried his weapons in the snow to cleanse them as he offered his latest kills to Modi in prayer. These meager offerings were all he could offer the berserk god, and it riled him. He was a mighty troll, strong of arm and quick of foot...the blood of dozens of Midgard's enemies should coat his hammer and axe before he supplicated himself before Modi. He thought back to just a few short years before, when Blade, Pellien and Zalathorn took him under their wings. Zalathorn was a fierce son of Modi, and taught Gruesome that the god's mighty gifts were not to be wasted. But wasted they were, fighting simple beasts such as the lich. He couldn't remember the last time he needed to ask Modi to transform him into a bear. The sweet release of reason, the embrace of savage power…those were the gifts of Modi. But all gifts brought a price. Lack of awareness in battle from a berserker's rage was Modi's. Even old bears got lost in the rage. Even old bears died under a swarm of Albion's armsmen.

And some wounds not even an old son of Eir could heal. Gruesome looked to Blade, as the aged dwarf leaned against a tree, knocking bits of lich flesh from his hammer. Blade used to be the first to announce his conquests to Eir. He would shout them for all the world to hear, and any that questioned offering the dead to the goddess of healing got a shield upside their head. "Their deaths be bringing more life to Midgard, fool!" Blade would shout in his raspy voice, heavy with the tongue of the mountian folk. Gruesome grimaced at the thought of what his old friend once was, and cursed King Eirik for keeping him from his true reward.

Gruesome rose to his feet and shook the snow from his hammer and axe. These were his weapons of choice, forged from strong, light arcanium; only the most proven warriors were given items of this precious metal. His gaze shifted to Pellien, the wrinkled kobold pulled his hood from his face and held his hand over his eyes as he peered west through the trees of Greip Forest. This was the chosen hunting grounds for the liches, the shadows of the trees and snowdrifts offered good hiding places for the pale ghouls. Clearing the beasts was more tedious than hazardous for the trio, especially as they grew more brazen with fewer Midgardians to thin their numbers. It was King Eirik's decree that the denizens of the frontiers be kept at bay to allow his soldiers to pass as swiftly as possible. Yet, only warriors past their prime were allotted for such menial work. Gruesome was there when General Aminad told Pellien that Blade was unfit for duty in the war. Even the kobold's blue face paled at the words. He argued, but to no avail. Of course, Pellien was ever loyal to his old comrade, he would not leave him to his fate alone. It is doubtful the old dwarf would have survived long without the little shaman taking care of him in the harsh lands. It was not the fighting that Blade couldn't handle, those were the only times he seemed to come alive; it was the times between the fights that Blade moved as if lost. His mind drifted elsewhere as a condition of too many times ripped from Valhalla at the cursed bind stones, a necessity brought on by the bloody war with Albion and Hibernia after King Arthur's death. The peace and unity of the three realms were ripped to pieces with his final breath.

Gruesome volunteered to join his fellows, to keep them safe; but Aminad denied him. A fit, young warrior such as he was needed in the war. Such were the orders of the King. Gruesome had railed, begged to stay with Blade and Pellien. Aminad had told him he was too loyal to the realm to be put to such lesser work. "What could you possibly do to deserve such punishment?" Aminad had asked in that way he had, that said you already know the answer. Hitting Aminad was the hardest thing Gruesome had ever done. It was a solid blow, but the great thane was a stout troll. Still, he had no choice but to charge Gruesome and sentence him to time in the frontier. That was several months ago, and Gruesome had learned to regret hasty decisions.

"There," Pellien's voice brought Gruesome out of his reverie. "Someone is fighting." His tiny hand pointed to somewhere just this side of Hverdrungr Hill. Gruesome could see nothing, but he trusted the kobold's senses, age had not affected his eyes or ears. It oftened seemed as if he could hear the enemies' arrows even before they left the bow. "Blade, we move."

Blade simply followed Pellien's command and chanted the song that would quicken their feet. The same magic that allowed his allies to attack with uncanny speed was used to make them outpace even a mighty warsteed. Coupled with Pellien's ability to stave off fatigue, the three could travel almost as quickly as one of the children of Bragi. Gruesome fell in line between Blade and the shaman without thinking, allowing the kobold to lead them while he maintained a good position to attack anyone that might attack from any side. Blade would follow and do whatever he deemed necessary in a fight.

Gruesome considered himself a means of pure destruction, yet the subtleties of Blade's and Pellien's abilities fascinated him. He swung his hammer, something died. Blade waved his hand in the air, and raging beasts quelled and slept on their feet. Pellien said a word, and blistering sores broke out on a dozen men. But the two also made Gruesome a devastating warrior. His natural strength and agility was augmented by their gifts and turned him into a maelstrom of carnage. Their healing abilities gave him the spirit to throw himself into any fray. With Blade and Pellien at his back, he knew that no force of man or elf would stand before him.

Pellien brought them to a quick stop a few yards from several bodies lying in the snow. Two Midgardians lay prone, blood still seeping from their wounds. The three others looked to be two Hibernians and one Albion. One of the Hibernians, a female elf, was torn to shreds…most likely by the two shadowblades of Midgard; the other celt and highlander had no marks upon them save for the ice that melted from their still-warm bodies. Gruesome watched as Pellien moved quickly to the shadow blades, his hands waving over their bodies as he chanted hurriedly under his breath.

"I can't," he said, almost inaudibly. Gruesome regarded him quizzically. The shaman looked at him, his face wide in amazement. "They're gone, just gone…"

The crunch of snow up the hill ahead of them stole the question from Gruesome's mouth. He looked up to see a thin figure dash from a covering of brush towards the ruins surrounding the outpost of Blendrake Faste.

"Enemy!" he shouted as he ran up the hill. Blade's chant carried him swiftly, but the avalonian he saw was close to one of the broken walls of the old settlement. It disappeared into the ruins, as Gruesome drew his weapons. He rounded a crumbled wall, his great arms swinging in anticipation of an ambush. He hit only empty air, as his frantic quarry stumbled towards another building. The dirty robe the man wore caught on a bush, shredding even more of the tattered cloth. Gruesome leapt after him, his excitement building at the thought of killing a true enemy of the realm. Only the midday's sun kept him from running his guts right onto the infiltrator's daggers. The stealthed man placed himself perfectly to cut off Gruesome from his prey violently, but the sun's glare off the tip of the blades alerted the troll at the last moment. He shifted his body sideways as he brought his axe down to slap the blades away. He swung his hammer wildly at the assassin, missing but giving himself the room he wanted between them.

As they circled each other, pain lanced Gruesome's back. Of course, he thought, no infiltrator attacks an enemy solo. The wound was light, but he moved to his left to keep the two from surrounding him. The bitter enemies slowly circled each other in the room of a building shattered long ago by Albion siege. Gruesome's eyes shifted from one to the other, gauging which would attack first. The two sneaks held their ground for a moment, eyes peering at Gruesome through tight slits. Then looked at each other and smiled, ever so slightly.

With a roar, Gruesome spun to his right. Keeping the blade of his axe between himself and the assassins, he brought his hammer down in a slashing motion behind him. The dark-skinned saracen poised to end the troll's life barely registered surprise before the massive blow caught him on the shoulder and drove his body into the rocky ground. Heavily wounded, but not dead, he rolled to a corner and raised his tiny blades in a defensive manner. The other two wasted no time in pouncing on Gruesome. He knew that he was much stronger and almost as quick as them, but no match alone for the seasoned infiltrators. But he wasn't alone. Red light danced in the eyes of the one to his right, and the lean Briton stood as if in a daze. Blade had found them! Gruesome heard the dwarf chant behind him and felt the speed of the gods infuse his muscles. He threw himself at his first assailant, large arms whirling in deadly blows. Pellien leapt into the room to his left, saw the saracen on the ground and motioned a single hand at him. The man convulsed in agony and writhed in pain. Gruesome felt energy swarm around him and knew that Blade was cleansing his wounds of any poison before casting the spell that would heal him. Meanwhile, he made short work of the briton before him, crushing the man before the onslaught of his blows. Pellien waved his arms in a circle, and barbs of shamanic energy flew toward the dazed assassin. Gruesome swung hammer and axe just as clarity returned to the man's eyes. Unlike the lich's, they definitely showed fear before the light of life left them in a collision of arcanium rage.

Gruesome turned, surveying the carnage around him. All was silent in the ruins as the three warriors listened to their surroundings. Even Blade's one, redshot eye was alight with the fever of anticipated combat. Where three sneaks were, usually many more followed. Albion was not known for doing anything without the benefit of larger numbers. Pellien's eyes widened suddenly.

"Scouts!" he yelled and raised his shield above his head. Blade followed suit and Gruesome threw himself down to a half-broken wall. Arrows thudded against rock, save for the two that barely penetrated the back of Gruesome's armor. Chuckles from the archers echoed off the stone walls. A disembodied voice like pure venom spoke in Albion's native tongue, the unintelligible words sounded soft but menacing. The sneaks were using stealth magic very close, getting position to finish off their trapped prey. Gruesome wasn't sure how many infiltrators might be closing on them, but experience told him at least two for each of them. The arrogance of these cowards seethed him. By Modi, he would not go easily to such as these. He looked to Blade, the old dwarf nodded at him and smiled grimly. Pellien looked calm, as always. Gruesome clutched his weapons to his chest. This was why he was born. This was his moment. Life and death would be decided by his strength in battle, by the power of his comrades. The number of enemies they faced would not matter. They had some cover from the scouts, and the infiltrators would have to get close to do their damage. Gruesome preferred having more room to swing his long arms, but trusted his strength even in close quarters. He didn't doubt the qualities of Pellien and Blade, the seasoned veterans had seen more battles than even the Valkyries could count.

They sat and waited in the silence of the ruined hall. The sun held its place high above them. A breeze rustled the rough brush that grew in the rocky ground around them. In the distance, Gruesome thought he heard the stretching of a sinewy string as a scout pulled his bow taut, perhaps the slide of an infiltrator's boot across a dusty surface. He pulled in his breath, focused his eyes ahead and drew his rage into himself.

The silence broke in the rush of leather boots, and a cry of pain…

**Chapter 2**

Trapped in the broken remains of a Midgardian fort atop Hverdrungr Hill, Gruesome and his companions waited for the inevitable strike of hidden daggers. They had come to this outpost near Blendrake Faste while chasing a single Albion, only to find themselves surrounded by an army of infiltrators and scouts. Rushing footsteps drifted on the wind, followed by a scream of pain. The tense troll's weapons jumped in his hands, towards an enemy that was not there. Another howl echoed the first, followed by an odd clatter and raspy battlecries from the direction the arrows had come that sent them into hiding in this corner of what seemed to be a ruined bedchamber. An alarmed shout went up among the nearby assassins, and Pellien reacted first. His fingers pointed at an empty spot of ground a few feet in front of him and a white-skinned inconnu, almost as short as the kobold, popped into view with a squawk of pain. The dark energy summoned by Pellien spread out from the odd-looking creature, and four other infiltrators' stealth magic was interrupted painfully by the shaman's spell. Blade chanted to Gruesome's right, and the big troll wasted no time. He knew he had to keep himself between his comrades and the Albion sneaks. He stepped forward and whirled his right hand in a huge uppercut blow, his hammer caught the inconnu's oversized head and sent the man flying through the air. Though short for a troll, Gruesome towered over all the men before him; and he knew they saw him as a mindless beast, hungry for their blood. They were half right.

The life-giver Ymir had pulled trolls into the world from the stones in the mountains; that is why their skin, though warm to the touch, had the texture of rock. They stood two heads taller than most men, and their faces were mostly featureless…just two eyes and a broad, lip-less mouth. They were the strength of Midgard, but some were able to harness the more earthly powers of the shaman and bonedancer. Outsiders thought them senseless brutes; and trolls used that to their advantage, painting their faces with grim symbols to strike terror into the hearts of their enemies.

Gruesome counted on all this, as well as the abilities of Blade and Pellien to heal his wounds, when he threw himself at the other assassins. He knew there would be more, only a fool would think Pellien had uncovered all of their attackers. But maybe a big, flailing troll would keep the others from gaining any kind of position for a critical strike. He brandished his hammer and axe with a roar and launched himself at a strong-looking man on the left; most likely a Briton, Gruesome judged by the tufts of yellow hair that protruded from his leather cap. The Albion had no chance to parry Gruesome's larger weapons with his much smaller ones and the blow drove the man into the ground with a crunch of broken bones. With the loss of surprise, these sneaky bastards had lost the advantage…and they most likely had no cleric or friar to heal them in battle.

Of course, they will just smother us with numbers, Gruesome thought grimly.

Blade had already placed a Saracen to his right in a mesmerized sleep; and creeping roots wound themselves around another's feet behind him, courtesy of Pellien. The fourth was recovered and advanced on Gruesome, clearly he was a bit more experienced than his comrades. Still, these were the youngest of Albion's infiltrators. The veterans, and most dangerous, preferred to hunt alone; they trusted in nothing but their own skills and magics. That gave the mighty warrior the confidence that he could take more than a few of these down before they were completely overrun. He almost absently noted that no arrows had flown his way, and thanked Modi for small favors. He wouldn't give in to a hope for survival, that would only lessen his killing rage.

Just as he narrowly evaded the twin daggers of the attacking infiltrator, Gruesome's left side erupted in pain as another pale-skinned Briton came into view with his weapons buried in the troll. He roared and tried to ignore the burning of poison in his veins. He spun in place, knocking the little man away with his left arm while his momentum brought his hammer into the assassin's back. He would have liked to savor the ugly crunch of bones and scream of agony, but he knew he had to keep moving. The other one's daggers grazed his back, finding no purchase in the sturdy armor.

His mentor Zalathorn had taught him well. "You're only as good as your equipment, and the friend behind you," the old dwarf would say. "Make sure they're both in good sorts." They wore studded leather, as opposed to the chain mail of most of Midgard's warriors. As berserkers, they needed the movement of both arms as much as possible. The wide-bladed axes in their left hands didn't require as much skill to block incoming attacks, and were less delicate weapons. But where Zalathorn liked a sword in his right hand, Gruesome preferred a hammer. The heavy-headed weapon was difficult to parry and could easily smash through shield and armor, especially with his strength augmented by Pellien's and Blade's enchantments.

The Saracen attacking him jerked in anguish and coughed out a red mist, as the little shaman's poison coursed through his body. Gruesome finished the man with a double-handed sweep of his hammer and axe. He felt the wound in his side close and the poison and rot begin to leave his body, but didn't take time to question which of his companions was healing him.

The venomous voice from before shouted orders somewhere past the broken wall behind them, and the sounds of combat continued beyond that. The first wave was failing, so that meant the rest would just swarm them. Gruesome's rage rumbled from his throat, and Blade howled defiantly. The Saracen trapped in vegetation scrambled to free himself, his eyes wide with fear. The menacing troll stepped in front of the assassin still sleeping on his feet, flipped his weapons into the air, raised his arms high above his head and caught both handles as he smashed hammer and axe into the spellbound man.

That ought to give them some pause, he chuckled to himself.

He stepped back, to take a more protective stance in front of the kobold and dwarf. He couldn't afford to let them come into melee combat, he stronghad /strongto stay between them and the sneaks. He heard the two preparing spells and held his weapons in front of him as he crouched as low as he could.

Three of them hit him at once, six different little blades tearing skin and muscle. If not for the healing powers of Blade and Pellien , he would have died. He swung out wildly, just hoping to make contact. He tried to ignore the pain, but why did the little sons of whores always have to use poison? They were quick, and so was he. But he was much stronger. His axe clipped the side of one's head, his hammer slammed one to the ground. The air before him was a blur of shiny metal, tiny blades cut into him from all sides it seemed. Even as one infiltrator fell, another took its place. He didn't see faces, just bodies while he fought to hit them before they could hit him. The chanting of his friends filled his ears, casting spells as fast as they could to keep him alive. They knew if he fell, they fell. He cleaved an Albion almost in two when it tried to get past him to Pellien. Gruesome almost wished more would go after one of his comrades, if only to give him a bit of relief from the constant stabs of pain. He'd once seen a cook stabbing a slab of elk with a fork to tenderize it before roasting. He now knew how that meat felt.

Pellien coughed and emitted a cloud of green haze that covered the horde of Albion men. The debilitating mist caused some of the attackers to shudder in surprise and gave Gruesome the small window he needed to dispatch two more of them with swift, strong blows. The remains of the tiny room they fought in was filled with bodies, the living stepping over the dead. The assassins cheered or taunted each other on, Gruesome couldn't tell. Their voices echoed off the stone walls, and grated in his head. Their arrogance enraged him, and he vowed to leave a mountain of their dead as his memorial. He only hoped that he could mangle their bodies beyond all chance of being revived at a bind stone.

Except for the pain of being constantly stabbed by these little prickers, his body was fresh. Pellien and Blade healed him almost as quickly as the infiltrators cut him, but he could only imagine that the two were exhausting themselves. He feared their mana would wane before his stamina and urged his arms to swing harder and faster. Some of the cowardly sneaks lost heart and backed away from him, clearly hoping their fellows would get the better of him. He evaded what blades he could, parried others and always followed with a big swing designed to either kill or give him space. A couple of the more brazen actually got in range of the kobold and dwarf, but he was able to knock them away before they could really hurt either. But how long could he keep this up?

Frustration and anger began to cloud his mind; he wanted to charge through the ranks of assassins like a bull, let the power of Modi sweep him away and smash them all into the ground. He felt his chest rumble, heard the words of prayer forming in his throat. He knew that this would bring on all their deaths, knew that he was condemning his friends. He also knew that he would sweep through their enemies like a maelstrom of death. Tears of rage or sorrow, he couldn't tell which exactly, pooled in his eyes. He tried to tell his friends that he was sorry, but all that came out was a deafening roar. Then he was pleading with his rage to take him away, to remove the pain and let him die as any Midgardian should.

Just as Gruesome was starting the prayer that would unleash the mighty bear from his soul, the wall to his left shattered from some great force. A thin body clad in black leather flailed through the air, slamming into four of the Albion invaders before him. Shock brought instant clarity to him. He heard the horrific screams of men, and the terrified voice of the Albion leader lost all of its venom as it shouted what could only be a retreat. The assassins before him jumped back with wide-eyed confusion.

"Kill 'em all!" Blade screamed behind him, and Gruesome obeyed. He slammed both weapons down on the back of an infiltrator, then swung both arms out to knock two others sprawling. He didn't even care if he killed, he was just hitting everything in front of him while maintaining his cover of the shaman and old dwarf. He would make sure no Albion sneak got close to his friends while the cavalry beyond wiped them out.

"For Midgard!" Gruesome shouted.

Then he learned that trolls were not the only avatars of strength. He had assumed another troll had thrown the little assassin through the wall, but this was no rescue force. The huge-horned head of a bull attached to the massive body of a man pushed through the remains of the wall. The beast wore thick, leathery armor and swung a large staff in its hands. Men scattered from its reach like mice in a barn. Around them, Gruesome heard the sounds of animalistic roars and screams of dying men. What sneaks were left vanished as quickly as they could. They wanted no part of a group of angry minotaurs.

And why were these minotaurs so angry? This was Midgard, not their subterranean labyrinth! Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe they had finally chosen sides and decided to help defend the frozen north!

He looked to the minotaur, their eyes met. The blood-shot eyes of the beast bulged with murderous rage. The creature raised the staff in its massive arms and bellowed at Gruesome. When it charged him, he knew for certain that this was no rescue.

**Chapter 3**

The reddish-brown minotaur snorted and threw itself at Gruesome, its head shaking violently as if to make sure everyone saw the long horns that stuck out at least two feet on either side. The huge staff it held in both hands was thick, and covered in runes. The big troll braced himself to catch the staff in both weapons. He was still a head taller than the beast, but it looked incredibly strong.

_This might hurt._

Then it stopped. The minotaur stood motionless, it's head still down as though it were charging. Red lights danced in its eyes.

"Get on with it, boy," Blade sounded impatient.

Gruesome smiled and set his hammer and axe in the large leather loops that hang on his sides. He shrugged his right shoulder to move the heavy cloak enough to uncover the massive hammer strapped to his back. The weapon was taller than most men, and the strong troll had to use two hands to wield it. He took two steps toward the dazed minotaur, shifting his torso to bring the full force of his blow to his target. The head of the hammer was almost as wide as the bull's head, and it hit right between its eyes with a heavy THUNK! The creature fell to the ground in a heap.

"Hel's tits, boy, ye 'bout knocked the beef off a-that one!"

"Carve it up, Blade. It has to taste better than dried venison." Pellien moved as he spoke, toward a hole in the crumbling wall. Moments before, the now-dead beast had smashed an infiltrator completely through the wall. The minotaur's presence might have saved the three from painful, stabbing deaths at the hands of Albion assassins, but Gruesome knew the enemy of his enemy hadn't become his ally. Especially after the man-bull had charged him with violence on its mind.

The shaman peeked out to what used to be a small lane between buildings in this ruined fort, as the sounds of combat beyond began to lighten. "They seem to have run off all the Albs, and a few are right beneath the outpost." He paused for a moment, studying the new arrivals. "There's a big one in black armor that seems to be the leader, he's sending some this way and taking some off…" His blue face pursed in thought. "Interesting."

"What, Pell?" Gruesome stepped behind the little kobold, crouching as low as he could to avoid being seen above the cracked wall.

"Four are coming this way. You two handle them, while I go see what those others are doing." He slipped behind Gruesome and Blade with a quickness that belied the wrinkles in his face and went out the shattered wall they'd used as an entrance to the stone building not half an hour earlier.

"Wait!" The troll tried to stop his friend, but he was gone.

"Fool runt," Blade shook his head as he pushed past Gruesome into the narrow lane. Gruesome immediately followed the old dwarf, knowing his comrade's lack of discretion could bring an army of minotaurs upon them. At least Blade seemed like his old self though, confident and brazen. It had been months since Gruesome heard him speak more than a word or two, longer even since the scarred old dwarf had moved with any sense of purpose. He found himself bolstered by his friend's newfound vigor.

Perhaps this was all Blade needed, to be thrust into a constant chain of battle. First, they had killed some frore liches in Greip Forest for the better part of the morning, though that was hardly a test of any of their skills. Then, they had stumbled upon what looked to be an Albion wizard, the sole survivor of a fight between warriors from Hibernia, Albion and Midgard. They chased him to the top of Hverdrungr Hill, to the ruined fort that surrounded the Blendrake Faste outpost here in the southern parts of Midgard's dangerous frontier. That had proved to be a well-laid trap to lead them to an army of infiltrators and scouts. Well, perhaps not so well-laid; but it had been long since Gruesome felt the crush of Albion and Hibernian bones beneath his hammer. Who could blame him for losing some caution to his thirst for a real enemy's blood?

They would surely have died to the archers and assassins, if some unseen ally hadn't attacked the scouts. As it was, the infiltrators almost overran them until the minotaurs showed up. And so they would now cast these beasts back into their labyrinthine home, or send them to their cow-faced gods!

The lane was wide enough for Gruesome and Blade to stand side by side. The crumbled walls of the buildings gave enough cover to keep them safe on their left and right, but someone could attack them from behind. Some of the infiltrators could be sneaking around, but they were a cowardly lot. They wouldn't chance getting hit by Gruesome's big weapons, or those of the minotaurs. Four of the creatures approached them, two behind the others. The ones in the fore carefully checked each side passage as they went, each holding a large, double-bladed axe in both hands. The other two wore metal gloves with twin blades protruding from the backs, and every finger was tipped with a long, fierce-looking claw. Their armor was all similar, thick brown leather that left their arms and legs bare. Where Gruesome expected hooves, they actually had feet covered in metal boots. He found himself oddly surprised, having only glimpsed a minotaur previously from afar in the great capital of Jordheim. And he didn't really bother to look at the one that tried to kill him before all that closely, but it had seemed to be lost in some sort of bloodlust.

These moved like trained warriors, with great concern for their surroundings. A black-hided one in the back, with a white swatch across its face noticed them first and brayed a warning to its companions. All four eyed the two sons of Midgard warily and hefted their weapons.

"What be ye name, boy?" Blade never took his eye off their foes. Gruesome remembered this game from better times, but knew it wouldn't do to let the enemy see a fearsome troll smile.

"They call me Gruesome, old man."

"Show me why then."

The fierce old dwarf began casting as Gruesome pulled his weapons free and charged the first two. To their credit, they didn't even balk at the larger troll running into four armed and armored warriors. Gruesome felt his muscles surge at Blade's behest, inhuman speed given to his inhuman strength. The brown minotaur on his right caught his hammer and axe with the shaft of its weapon; but the force of the troll's attack pushed it back, leaving grooves in the rocky ground from its large boots. The one on the left raised its axe in a strike, then wobbled suddenly on its feet. Blade had placed it in a waking sleep. The black one in back shouted in a booming voice and pushed past Gruesome and his adversary. Blade was only a few paces behind him, but the troll knew better than to turn his back. The dwarf chanted a quick spell, and the charging minotaur abruptly stopped and smashed itself into a wall. Gruesome pressed the attack while Blade cast spell after spell, sending each minotaur save the one the troll fought into a mesmerized haze. They would stay that way until physically awoken by another, unless they had enough training to actually bring themselves out of it. Gruesome knew it could be done, but it was very difficult.

Keeping his foe on the defensive, he brought hammer and axe to bear from either side. The minotaur could only parry one, and feared the axe's blade more. He smashed into its left shoulder, and the beast bellowed out its pain.

"Watch it, boy!" He heard Blade's warning and turned his head to see the other axe-bearer shaking off its spellbound reverie. These were definitely well-trained. Blade chanted again and the wounded minotaur stood in place like a statue. "Aye, I got ye, beastie!" the old dwarf taunted. "Quit dawdlin' and kill 'em quick, ye big lump!"

Gruesome deftly sidestepped a wild swing by his newly-woken attacker and sandwiched the stunned bull's head with twin crushing blows. Thick black blood poured from the gash made by his axe. He slammed his left shoulder into the other, a big red minotaur with large rings that jangled from its curved horns, before it could bring it's huge weapon up for another try at him. These foes were strong, but he doubted they could match his might even if it wasn't enhanced by Blade's and Pellien's magics. He followed through with his right hand, jabbing his hammer into the beast's exposed left side. It grunted as the air left its body.

Pain lanced through Gruesome's right side. The last minotaur, another brown one with those nasty gloves, sliced through armor and thick troll skin to open an ugly wound. He spun quicker than any troll should to catch its left hand with the head of his mallet. This one was faster than its axe-wielding brother, its right hand coming up in a punch meant to spill his guts on the ground. Gruesome moved his hips slightly, causing the metal blades of the glove to slice through his armor and barely graze his belly. He couldn't quite bring his axe in for a good cleave on the bastard's head, so he smashed his fist into it. The minotaur reeled backwards and Gruesome brought himself around again to face Red just as the big bull was heaving its axe behind it for a devastating blow. Gruesome struck first with rapid movements of his long arms; his hammer glanced off the minotaur's armor, but his axe found purchase in his target's right armpit, cutting into meat and bone. The beast gurgled an anguished cry and dropped the axe behind it.

"Hel take ye!" Blade cursed behind him, and there was a clang of metal on metal.

Gruesome turned to face Mr. Claws, hammer and axe swinging in tandem arcs as he went. It wasn't a good hit, but he had enough force to throw the minotaur into the wall behind it. He charged into it, pinning both of their arms between their large bodies. They spat and growled at each other, but Gruesome was far too strong to give it any room to maneuver. He crushed it bodily into the wall.

A large ring dangled from the bull's nose, and the troll seized the opportunity. Gripping the ring with his teeth, he jerked back hard while pushing the minotaur away with all his might. The ring came free with a gush of blood and a howl of searing pain. Gruesome pounded his hammer and axe into the tormented creature repeatedly until he was satisfied it had no life.

He looked behind him, to where Blade furiously defended blows from the much faster Black. Ignoring the pain in his side, Gruesome leapt to his old friend's aid. He whirled his tree-trunk arms, but the quicker minotaur must have sensed him. It moved to the right, and he barely missed smashing in its skull. With only a cursory glance to its fallen comrades, Black jumped past Gruesome to where Mr. Claws had fallen. Red was picking up the other axe-bull with his good left arm, as the two guarded their fallen cohorts. Black bellowed out something in their throaty language, and more bellows answered it from closer to the outpost just south of them.

Gruesome stood with both weapons raised, daring the bulls to attack. The taste of metal and blood fueled his ire, the warmth of his enemy's essence still coated his jaw. He stomped a heavy foot at his beaten foes and spat out the bloody ring. It landed about halfway between them and laid on the ground like a grim challenge to the minotaurs. His chest rumbled, and he summoned his most ferocious victory roar. It poured from his throat like a dragon's call, telling every creature for miles that he was Troll, and Troll would not be defeated.

Two light brown minotaurs appeared at the end of the lane, each holding long staves. Black and Red gathered their comrades and retreated warily toward the outpost. Gruesome stood his ground before Blade and soon felt the dwarf's healing magic work its way over his wound.

_Thank Modi those beasts didn't have such as you, old friend._

"So, those be the mighty minotaurs, eh?" Blade waited until Gruesome's wound was fully healed before he turned his recuperative magic on himself, the big troll noted. "Maybe next time they ought to be bringin' the whole herd, eh, boy?"

"Aye, old man." Gruesome watched, sure the minotaurs would launch another attack, if only to retrieve the ornate axes left behind by his vanquished foes. They looked to be worth a hefty weight of gold. A few short brays drifted on the air, but they sounded further than before. It was as if the minotaurs had come to test he and Blade and found them too hearty for their tastes.

"Hmmph," the old dwarf grunted. "Looks like we scared 'em plenty. What say we go find the runt and see if he still lives."

Gruesome flexed his broad shoulders. "I still feel his magic in me, he must be alive."

"Don't mean he don't plan on dyin' soon, boy."

"Aye, Blade."

Gruesome smiled as he followed the stout dwarf to where Pellien left them.

_Bring on the bull-headed beasts. Bring on every sneak in Albion. I've got Blade with me, and you will all know my name._

**Chapter 4**

Pellien moved with hurried purpose to the edge of what remained of the small fort atop an old hill in the Midgard frontier. From his brief glimpse of the minotaurs, it was obvious they were searching for someone, or something. His mind wandered to his old friend Blade, the crotchety dwarf actually had his head up for once! He quickly returned his thoughts to the task at hand. Why had the big one in black armor taken two and headed east through the ruins? What were they looking for? A grin creased his wrinkled face. Had he actually seen Blade smile when Gruesome felled that taur? By Ymir's blood, this cold was making his bones creak! Was he getting too old to be sneaking around by himself?

_You're only as old as you feel, shaman._

He peeked around the broken wall of the building that housed his two friends and a pile of dead Albs and listened for sounds that might alert him to any of the assassin's returns. He hadn't survived three decades of a two-front war with Albion and Hibernia with only two trips to a bind stone by being careless. Fighting was all well and good if you were a stout dwarf or big troll, but a kobold's greatest strength was knowing when to run. He shook his head to clear the thoughts of how his friends had almost just gotten him killed, then cursed his own judgment for choosing Ymir's path as a youth. Few shamans had the luxury of sitting back and letting a runemaster or warlock destroy their enemies from afar, their talents were just too useful in more brutish efforts. His abilities to strengthen and quicken muscles, and fend off fatigue, had managed to keep him surrounded by a bunch of brash, slaphappy berserkers. And they were never known for their inhibitions in battle!

The snowy hill beneath him was quiet and still. He darted from his cover to the shattered remains of a wall further down. His small size made it easy to find a hiding space while he watched to the south for any sign of the minotaurs. The dull brown of his cloak and painted gray armor wouldn't be as noticeable as most. Gruesome favored black armor, like most warriors. Pellien supposed it gave them a more fearsome countenance in battle, but they never blended well in the snowy landscape of Midgard. Blade kept the soft gold of his arcanium armor shiny at all times and wore a cloak of deep purple. The old dwarf could look incredibly regal…until he opened his mouth and spewed out enough curses to make Loki blush. Of course, he hadn't done that in the past year.

Dark thoughts clouded the kobold's blue face, as he replayed the scene that had led the three of them to this fate. He absently rubbed the gray-streaked beard on his chin with his right hand before bringing his mind back to his present circumstance. Daydreaming and mourning could wait for simpler times.

Two minotaurs emerged from the ruins up the hill, closer to the outpost that sat atop it. They were ruddy-brown and carried large axes in both hands. Pellien crouched low and stayed still as the two surveyed the land before them briefly, then nodded and spoke to another behind them. The dark red one in black armor he'd spotted giving orders to the rest stepped from between two crumbling buildings with an air of superiority. It was a large brute, as tall as a troll and almost as wide. An ornate, two-handed sword was strapped to its back, the blade's hilt seemed to be longer than the little kobold. It pointed down the hill, past the shaman's hiding spot, and the three beasts lumbered steadily toward their goal. The big, steel boots they wore crunched snow as they went. Their armor was all similar in style, though the first two wore thick, brown leather as opposed to the black of their commander. He was the only one of them with a cloak on his back…a long black cloak with red interior. They wore nothing on their heavily-muscled arms and legs, apparently oblivious to Midgard's cold. The two underlings had shorter, curved horns, while their leader had long ones that only curved slightly at the tips. His were adorned with rings, all shiny gold. Pellien wondered if they were awarded as medals of a sort, or just a sign of the beast's station.

He'd never talked to any of the minotaurs he'd seen in Jordheim. They kept to themselves, and only took counsel with King Eirik himself. They were an odd race, that fascinated his curious mind…but not enough to go ask these hearty warriors anything face to face. He was content with only watching from afar for now.

When they passed where he could not possibly be in their line of sight, he poked his head over the top of the little wall. The minotaurs spread out about twenty yards northwest of where he hid, looking at the five corpses they had found before Gruesome had chased after a single avalonian. Yet more strangeness they had discovered this day. Two Midgardian shadowblades, one dead Albion warrior and two Hibernians. Even though the wounds were fresh on the two norsemen, Pellien could not bring them back from death's door. He had never seen anyone with blood in their veins that couldn't be brought back and healed before. At the very least, they could have taken them to a bind stone; but it was as if the very essences of the two had been severed with whatever blades had killed them.

The taurs fussed over the Alb and Hibs, but Pellien could not tell what exactly they were doing. The angle of the hill kept the wall hiding whatever occurred below the creatures waists. The little bit of wall was only a few feet across, so he slowly slid to the right edge, careful not to make any sound that might alert them to his presence.

He cursed silently as a small brush blocked his view just an arm's length down the hill from the wall. Leaning around the crumbling stone, he gently pushed the dried limbs of the mostly-dead bush with his right hand to give him an unobstructed view of just what these three were about.

While the leader spoke in authoritative tones in a basso voice, one of the subordinates had strapped his axe to his back and carefully held three swords in his hands. The blades were wrapped in a cloak of one of the fallen, but shiny hilts stood out of one end. The other brown taur also had his axe strapped to his back, and was crouched amid the dead bodies. The commander waved his hand dismissively at the elf female and pointed at the other Hib and the Alb. The kneeling minotaur, hefted each of the corpses with one hand as if he was carrying just-filled waterskins back to camp.

Then Pellien was falling forward.

His weight was too much for the dying little bush. It came free of its shallow roots and the kobold tumbled bodily down the steep hill, before stopping his descent only a few yards from the startled minotaurs. He stared at six, large brown eyes from his hands and knees for an eternal moment.

"Hello, lads, a little far from home, aren't you?" Pellien was never a fan of uncomfortable silences.

The leader pointed at him and bellowed what was clearly a less-than-friendly order. The one minotaur dropped the corpses and charged the little kobold, drawing its axe from its back. Pellien leapt to his feet and scrambled quickly back up the hill. The forest was closer, but wights and liches waited in those shadows. Better to hope to outrun the taurs and lead them closer to Gruesome and Blade. Pellien's tiny legs pumped through the snow, but he heard the heavy thumps of the minotaurs' boots gaining ground.

_Come on, Ymir, don't let your favorite son die to an angry cow!_

He reached the little wall and threw himself over with both hands. It cracked behind him as the heavy axe-blade barely missed its target. He rolled to his left and shot to his feet. His knees popped in aged dissent.

_To Hel with you!_

He cursed his own body as he pulled his shield from his back and kept running. These boys certainly didn't believe in negotiating peaceful resolutions. What danger could one little shaman pose to such large and stalwart champions of the underground? The massive sword blade struck his shield and sent his small body flying. As he lay briefly in the snow, he mentally checked his arm and decided no bones were broken. Of course, his pursuers would amend that.

He rolled to his right, away from his attacker and raised himself to his knees unsteadily. The two minotaurs advanced on him, each moving to one side to pen him between them. Two long-legged steps from each would bring them in striking range, and he deduced quickly that no spell would pass his lips in time to stop them. He thought another tumble down the hill might be his quickest escape.

Tendrils of dark-red energy curled around the leader's legs. The brute struggled violently to free itself from the magic that held it in place. At the same time, raspy battlecries came from higher up the hill to Pellien's right. The brown minotaur cried out in pain and spun its attention from the shaman.

Pellien stared in awe as three rattling skeletons attacked the much larger taur. Two were smaller and batted at the beast with maces not much bigger than his own hammer; while the third, a taller bony figure wearing dull chain armor, swung a large sword with both hands. The minotaur caught the sword with the shaft if its axe, then swung the flat of the blade into a smaller skeleton and tossed it easily to the side. The other mace smacked into the big monster's arm with a thud that elicited a grunt. Dark magic surrounded the beast and it roared in agony.

A small figure appeared at Pellien's side. He looked to his right to see a kobold, about half a head taller than himself. The younger man wore simple clothes, with fur lined boots and a heavy black cloak. An easy smile adorned the light blue face above a tuft of golden hair on his chin. In his left hand was a wicked staff of ornately carved black wood with a small animal's skull atop it; his right was outstretched to Pellien in an offertory manner.

"Let me help you up, grandfather, then we can manage these cretins together."

Pellien stared at the hand for a brief moment before allowing the kobold to help him to his feet.

_Could this day get any odder?_

He quickly focused his attention to the minotaur in the black armor. The larger beast shook its head with a mighty, jingling rage and shouted something to the other. With a force that shook the ground, it ripped itself free of the entangling magic laid by the other kobold and charged the two blue countrymen. The large blade swung over their heads, as both dodged to either side. The minotaur charged past and kept running. The smaller, brown one followed in its wake, limping from a small gash in its left leg. They ran up the hill toward the ruins, and Pellien realized he'd somehow lost the third in all the excitement of trying not to die.

His savior ran to his side, followed by the group of clattering skeletons. He eagerly offered his hand to Pellien again, which the shaman accepted. A fourth, even smaller skeleton rushed to him and reached its bony hands for his legs.

"Get off me, creature!" He batted the hands away even as he realized it hadn't grasped him, only knocked some snow and dirt from his chain armor.

"Apologies, grandfather! We mean you no harm!" The younger kobold's voice sounded almost hurt.

"Why are you calling me that? You're no relation of mine!" Pellien looked behind to where the minotaurs had fled. The large pair disappeared into the ruins, among a cacophony of deep-throated braying. "You let them get away, why didn't you stop them?"

"Apologies again, grandfather, I only wanted to make sure you were safe. And I think your friends might still be in danger!"

A leonine roar erupted from the shambled fort up the hill and echoed from the forest wall. Pellien smiled in recognition.

"I think my friends are fine, boy. Just keep those…things…away from me. If they belong to you, that is."

"You could say that, grandfather,." the young man smiled again, his purple eyes wide. To Pellien, it appeared the kobold didn't blink much. It gave him an unnerving air.

"Don't call me grandfather, boy." Pellien eyed the man warily. "None of my grandchildren have ever trafficked with the dead."

"Oh, I apologize, good elder," His face took an immediate remorseful turn, and his head bowed deeply. "I meant no disrespect, none at all!"

"Hmmph," the little shaman watched as the skeletons comically mimicked the younger kobold's actions. Well, it would have been comical if they had been anything but animated bones in sparse clothing and armor. "My name is Pellien, you can call me that, bonedancer."

The smile returned instantly to the man's face, and the skeletons behind him lost their prostrate poses just as quickly. "And my name is Tarac, good elder! Bogdar's blessings be upon us all!"

Pellien's stomach churned at the thought of accepting the blessings of an ancient god of the dead. He'd not had much contact with bonedancers, they were a strange lot and not accepted by most Midgardians. This one seemed pleasant enough, but there was an oddness about him.

"Ymir grant you long life, Tarac," he looked past his younger cousin to the eerie, bony beings behind him. "If that's your thing, that is."

**Chapter 5**

Gruesome and Blade stepped into the Midgard sun to the last sight they expected. Trudging up the hill toward them came Pellien and another kobold with four skeletons shambling behind them. Blade crossed two fingers in front of his good eye and spat at the ground. The dwarf was a true child of the old ways, and used the sign to ward off evil. Gruesome wished he had a similar way to show his disapproval of the bonedancer that followed his friend. Instead, he raised one hand in a short wave to the odd group before them, and made his way down the hill with Blade in tow.

"We won the day, Pell. The minotaurs retreated with their dead."

"Aye, brute, they heard of your victory all the way in Nifleheim." The shaman seemed nonplussed by the ghastly creatures behind him. Unlike Blade, whose scowl Gruesome could feel without looking.

"Keep ye beasties away, conjurer. I'll not breathe the good air of Eir with such."

The younger kobold held his ground, a shocked look upon his face.

"Apologies, good dwarf, " His hands came up in surrender, as did the hands of the abominations behind him. "We mean no harm. No, no harm at all!"

"Easy, Blade, this is Tarac," Pellien's tone was chiding. "I owe him my life. I dare say we all might."

"Aye, until he needs more bones for his pets!"

"Good dwarf, I would never! Well, not until it was the proper time!"

Gruesome growled. "You won't touch our bones, little man! I'll crush yours before you do!"

"Oh, good troll, no...no, I never meant..."

"Let's all just settle down, why don't we. Haven't we all nearly died enough today without fighting amongst our kinsmen?"

Gruesome acquiesced to Pellien's logic, but knew that Blade would take more convincing. He studied the clattering remains that stood before them. One was larger than the others. It wore a horned helm atop it's empty-eyed skull and loose, durable-looking chain covered its torso. A shabby gray cloak adorned its back, covering a large sword that hung from sturdy straps. Two others carried small maces on their hips, held on by worn belts around their bones; and a third stayed behind the rest, with no weapon visible. All four wore sturdy-looking boots of thick leather, and each one's equipment seemed in good condition. Gruesome had seen younger warriors in the field that would have gladly traded with these undead beasts.

He turned his attention to the young kobold. The man's smooth skin was a lighter blue than Pellien's. His golden hair was mostly covered by a light cloth cap of deep purple. His clothes were dyed accordingly, and seemed to be of practical, sturdy material. His boots were of thick cloth, lined with fur against the northern cold. They were dyed black, as well as the thick cloak he wore. A necklace of charms draped over his shirt, his wrists and fingers shined with runecarved bracelets and rings. The most impressive item the boy carried was his staff. It was pure ebon, save for the skull on top, and looked old and steeped with power. At first glance, the young kobold looked unremarkable...it was only after close inspection that Gruesome could see that he might be a very powerful conjurer.

He looked again to the skeletons behind Tarac. Powerful and evil.

"If the taurs and Albs have all fled, let's adjourn to the outpost." Pellien interrupted the short silence as Blade and Gruesome sized up their new arrivals. "We can make our formal introductions there, and get my old bones out of this cold!"

The old outpost was empty, no guards had been stationed here for some time. Standing three stories tall, the stone structure was barren inside, save the stairs that wound up to each floor and a small rock pit to one rounded side. Gruesome easily hefted the large wooden plank that kept the thick oak door from being opened from without. Tarac made his way up the wide stone staircase, skeleton minions behind with drawn weapons. Pellien coaxed a fire to life after dropping what few logs were left into the pit. Gruesome knew they would be expected to replace the wood for whomever might use the outpost next.

Having fewer numbers than Hibernia and Albion, Midgard could not maintain a standing force at every outpost in their frontiers. Men and elves seemed to reproduce faster than rats, and their nights weren't near as cold as those in the frozen north! These outposts were more a waypoint for roaming bands of warriors, and havens for cowardly assassins looking for easy pickings.

Tarac's soft steps returning down the stairs were masked by the rattling sounds of his charges' bones as they walked. His pets aped his relaxed attitude and Gruesome figured they were safe from stealthy daggers. Blade made a more grandiose gesture with his right hand from where he sat against the wall, and only barely missed the bonedancer's boot with a thick wad of spit. Gruesome noted with respect that Tarac managed to ignore Blade's actions.

_At least the boy knows not to challenge him._

"Good troll, I noticed your armor is in disrepair from your recent endeavors," Tarac's earnest face was offputting to the big troll. "I would be honored to mend it for you. I've had quite a bit of experience repairing my own equipment, and that of my others here."

Gruesome stared at the little kobold intently, but could not deny the boy kept his things in good order. If he spoke the truth, of course. Then he looked down at his own thick, studded jerkin. Numerous jagged holes showed in the black material. Both sides hung loose from the stitching, evidence of a couple of harsh blows he'd received earlier.

"Alright, little man." Gruesome unclasped his heavy, black cloak and carefully pulled the massive mallet from the straps on his back. He gingerly removed the jerkin and dropped it into Tarac's outstreched arms.

"Unph!" The little kobold buckled under the armor's weight. "You're a big one, mighty troll!"

Gruesome's stomach turned as three of the skeletons rushed to their master's aid, hefting the massive jerkin for his perusal. Blade grunted in disgust. Tarac sat upon the steps and examined the torn armor.

"Hmm, nothing some patching and heavy thread can't fix. Luckily, all the studs are intact. I'll have you all set quick as a wink!" A broad smile creased Tarac's face.

"While you do that, Tarac, why don't you tell us how you came to be out here," Pellien pushed the logs around with his hammer to stoke the fire. Warmth began to creep through the small room, for which Gruesome was thankful as he stood in just a simple, sleeveless shirt. "By the way, my large friend is Gruesome, a mighty son of Modi. Blade is the old goat, devoted zealot of the glorious Eir." He never turned his back as he spoke.

"A pleasure, good sires, I am Tarac. Bogdar's blessings to you both!" The young kobold's good cheer seemed honest to Gruesome, and that unnerved him even more. The kobold's small hands worked deftly with a large needle as he spoke. "Well, good elder, I make my way all around the frontier. Like yourselves, I am unguilded; but that does not mean that we do not defend our lands, does it not? I find these towers to be excellent hunting for assassins, and the beasts of the land are all about. There are unending means of making coin through bounties and the like.

"I buy supplies from the keeps, and have no real reason to return to more civilized surroundings...not that we are necessarily welcome there." He looked up from his patchwork, and Gruesome met his large, purple eyes. "The life of a bonedancer is one of solitude. For some reason, we are seen as undesirable because of our practices."

The troll cast his gaze downward and shifted uneasily on his feet. Only then did he realize that he was the only one that stood. He lumbered to the wall and lowered himself down slowly. His gray, rocky-textured skin blended well with the stone of the outpost.

"I've been in this area for some weeks," Tarac continued. "Ever since I saw the odd ones coming from the hole."

"Odd ones? Hole?" Pellien finally turned his back to the fire.

"Aye, good elder, the ones down the hill you saw. They came from the hole with the minotaurs. I'm sure that's where the minotaurs ran."

Gruesome leaned forward. He wished Tarac would explain himself.

"What do you mean 'odd', Tarac? Why are they odd?" Pellien had more patience with the bizarre kobold than the troll and dwarf combined.

"Well, it's quite odd for the peoples of Hibernia, Midgard and Albion to fight alongside each other." He stopped his work and raised his head. "But there's more. They are..different." He turned his attention back to Gruesome's jerkin.

"And they are enchanted."

"Hmmph," Blade finally joined the conversation as he pulled a hunk of dried venison from a pouch and ripped a large piece off with his teeth. "Reckon ye be knowin' all about enchantin' things, eh, graverobber?"

Tarac's head shot up. "Enchant? Oh, no, no no, good dwarf. I have no knowledge of such slave magics. Such is the work of Albion and Hibernia. Binding one's will to your own is abominable. Abominable!"

"Aye," Blade's bloodshot eye glared at the skeletal figures before him. "Abominable."

"How are they different, bonedancer?" Gruesome's curiosity was piqued by this strange kobold.

"Not right, good troll, not right at all. They do things they shouldn't. No warrior from Midgard should unleash fire from his very hands. I don't know many people, but I know that's not right." He pulled his head back to inspect his work, and the skeletons spun the jerkin without a word from the bonedancer. He found another area that needed work and pulled more heavy leather thread through the eye of the big needle.

They sat without speaking for a few moments, Blade's loud smacking echoed from the high stone ceiling. Tarac seemed content working in silence. Peliien rubbed his chin in a manner that Gruesome knew well; it meant the old kobold was deep in thought, probably mulling over Tarac's ridiculous statements. Men from all three realms fighting together? Though traitors were not unheard of, they were dealt with harshly in Midgard. Members of their own guild, if they belonged to one, were expected to beat them to death as brutally as possible. If the treason was significant enough, their children and families would share their fate. Bad blood begat bad blood. Whatever the crime, their songs would never be sung. No funeral pyre built for them, they would be food for the wolves. To lose your path to Valhalla was enough to keep all but the most evil-hearted men from betraying their king. Gruesome had only heard of two men ever accused of such treachery in the decade he'd spent fighting in the frontier. The young kobold spoke as if he'd seen more than one in just a few weeks. Impossible.

_But he said enchanted..._

"What is this hole you mentioned, Tarac?" Pellien broke Gruesome's thoughts with his question.

Tarac raised one golden eyebrow. "Aah, yes, the new entrance to the minotaurs' underground lair. I don't know when it was made, but it wasn't here four months ago. And now it is. Though they normally only use it at night. Perhaps they fear the invisible hordes of Albion?" His mouth quirked to one side as if he'd just told a joke for everyone's amusement.

Pellien's gray eyes stared into nothingness and his small hand stroked his copper and silver beard as if it were a cherished pet. Gruesome watched his old friend intently, trying to read the old shaman's thoughts to ease his own mind. Their old commander Aminad was a thinker, Pellien was a thinker...Gruesome just needed his weapons and a target. He wished he could be more like them at times, a man of tactics and ideas. He looked down at his large, stony hands clenched into fists between his legs.

"And why did they want the weapons, Tarac? And they completely ignored the two dead Mids. They took three swords, two from the Hibs and one from the Alb. Why? And why couldn't we save the norsemen? They were dead, even though their bodies were still warm. Their lives were gone."

Blade stopped eating at Pellien's words. The dwarf stared at the kobold slackjawed.

"What are ye on about, runt? Ye make no sense. Why didn't ye grab those boys from death's halls and get 'em back up?"

"I couldn't, Blade. Their souls were gone. There was nothing to grab."

It was Blade's turn to stare into nothingness. His mouth absently went back to work on the venison, his gray beard shiny with his own drool.

"Souls don't move so quickly, shaman. Eir knows they linger." Gruesome wondered if Blade's words meant he was aware of his condition as of late. Until this day, the dwarf had spent most of a year in a walking trance, taking no notice of his surroundings unless they were in combat. Even in fighting the beasts of the frontier, Blade was barely active...a shadow of himself.

Tarac shifted his wide-eyed gaze from the kobold to the dwarf, then back again. "I don't know about any weapons, good elder. I mean, all the ones I've seen carry weapons, except for the minotaurs in robes. Scary lot, those." He lost himself in his work again.

"Where is this entrance to the labyrinth, Tarac. How do we get there?"

"Oh, it's not far, not far at all. They come from it and take whoever they can back. I've never seen anyone return, and the moon has turned twice since I've started watching. As a matter of fact, I've never seen the same ones come out of there. Except for the minotaurs in the robes. I believe they are always the same. Always behind the odd ones. Always singing some dirge."

Blade took a long, noisy draught from a waterskin. Water flowed down his long beard and beaded on the golden chain tunic he wore. He wiped his mouth with the edge of his thick, purple cloak, then dabbed the droplets off his armor while he belched loudly.

"Well," Pellien rose to his feet and stretched. "We need to report this to Jarl Sigund at Blendrake. Perhaps he can give us a few men to search this new entrance. Or maybe we'll find some hearty souls to join us."

"Oh, do you know the Blendrake jarl?" Tarac's smile returned. "I've never met the man, I usually only deal with their supply captain." His face quirked. "He's not a pleasant man."

"Aye," Gruesome rumbled. "We report to Sigund every fortnight. He pays us bounties for the talons and fangs of whatever we kill. He is our sponsor."

"Sponsor, good troll? What do you mean? I've never had any military experience."

"We're not in the military, Tarac," Pellien spoke as if to a child. "We've been...sequestered...from fighting in the frontlines."

"Aye, the big brute decided to slap one of the king's own counsel and brought us to this end!"

Gruesome's jaw tightened at Blade's words. He doubted if the old dwarf even knew the real reason for his actions.

"Then he would have let us die to those Albs if ye and the bulls hadn't come along, graverobber. Ever hear of a son of Modi too afraid to use his own god's greatest gift?"

"Blade..." Gruesome's fingers dug into his palms.

"'Tis true, boy! Ye haven't used the call since Zalathorn died, and ye could have crushed them all today!"

"There were too many, Blade. There's no way Gruesome could have killed them all and kept them from us while in a berserker's rage."

"Pups, runt, they were all pups. Such live in fear. One look at a rampaging beast, and they would have run to their mama's skirts!"

Blade's words struck Gruesome in the heart. He knew his old friend spoke the truth. His own fear of losing control kept him from calling for Modi's help. How must the mighty bear god be disappointed in him? How could he call himself a viking?

"Oh, so now you would take a bonedancer as your ally, old goat?" Pellien's wry smile confused Gruesome. "Or would you rather a two-legged cow stand before you on the battlefield?"

"Blaspemy, runt."

"And who kept you from dying to those bulls up there while I was away? I'm sure you'd like to think you fought an army of them yourself."

"The boy did alright, I suppose." Blade's eye lit up. "Hah! Ye bit that cow's nose right off, boy! Did ye see 'em run after that? Tails between their legs!"

Gruesome's chest was still tight. The dwarf had stung him with truth, as was his way. His eyes studied the floor beneath him. A hand on his shoulder brought his head up. Tarac stood before him with an apologetic smile on his face.

"Your jerkin is good as new, mighty troll. May it serve you well."

The troll stared at the young face and saw not pity, as he expected. The bonedancer actually seemed to feel bad with Gruesome, not for him. Behind Tarac stood the three skeletons, eagerly offering his jerkin to him. He took it and examined the boy's work. It was artful. The troll could scarce believe he'd been close to death's door today while wearing this. And to be done so quickly. He looked to Tarac again, a new curiosity in his eyes.

"My thanks, bonedancer, it's fine work you've done." He heard Blade spit again.

"Anything to be of service, good troll!" The compliment brought a new smile to his face, and he bounded back to his perch upon the steps.

"Now that that is settled, let's be off before we lose good daylight," Pellien clapped his hands together. "Or before Blade resorts to his life as a stable foal and squats in the corner. Ymir's blood, you old goat, you act like you've never been around civilized folk!"

"My apologies, runt. I didn't know I dined in the company of the ladies of Albion court!" The old dwarf rose to his feet and made a deep bow, then gestured toward Tarac's brood. "And which of these be ye fool to dance for us while ye regale us with tales of ye new skirts and dresses?"

"Oh, you play that part admirably enough, old fool."

"The only dancin' I'll be doin' is on ye bones a-fore this one be raisin' 'em up for his unnatural purposes. How do ye think he stays out here so long without the company of a woman?"

Tarac's face matched his shirt as the young kobold blushed. "Oh, no, good elder, I would never...I could never...it would be unthinkable!"

"You'd have to beat Blade off me anyways. Sometimes he looks at me like a lovesick girl."

"Ye wish, shaman. Ye wish."

Guresome chuckled at his two old friends. As harsh as Blade could be, there's no other dwarf he'd want at his side when the man's mind was right. He met Pellien's eyes and saw a twinkle there he hadn't seen since they were sent away from the war. It filled his heart with excitement for whatever they might encounter next. He wished the horde of infiltrators had returned and brought some friends with them. His hammer and axe felt heavy on his hips, they longed to be out and spilling blood.

**Chapter 6**

Pellien wished to speak more with Blade, to ask him how much of the past year he could recall. The old healer seemed to remember Gruesome hitting Aminad, but not why. The boy had done it so he could accompany the kobold and dwarf...to protect them. But Blade didn't remember the five dead bodies from just a couple of hours before. Pellien wanted to ask the old dwarf about all of this, but knew Blade would never be forthright in front of Gruesome and the bonedancer. He said a silent prayer to Ymir that the two would have a few moments together later.

He would have sent Gruesome and Tarac to gather firewood to replace what they'd used, but the kobold's undead minions were all too useful at such tasks. Tarac had simply asked Gruesome to open the door, and the skeletons ran out and were back with four armloads of dried wood from around the ruins before Pellien was finished dousing their fire. Every time the unnerving creatures moved, Blade watched them as if he expected an attack at any moment; and he greeted their return with a warding gesture and a hock of spit. Pellien couldn't help but smile to himself.

Tarac was another riddle for the shaman. He had many more questions for the bonedancer, but knew there was no time. At two hours past midday, they only had a few more hours of sunlight. He wished to speak to Jarl Sigund at Blendrake Faste before night fell.

The old kobold looked to Gruesome. The big troll was a stalwart companion and the fiercest berserker he'd ever seen, but Blade's words had hurt the mighty warrior. As terrible as he was on the battlefield, Gruesome was too kindhearted to respond to the dwarf's harsh barbs. Pellien wanted to console the big brute, but would never unman him in such a way in front of others. Once again, he prayed Ymir would grant him the proper time for a friend.

He rose to his feet, feeling his years, and prepared himself for what he foresaw being the most difficult task of the day.

"Blade, we need to move soon."

"Aye, shaman."

"Before we do, let us grant Tarac our blessings."

The mighty son of Eir glared at Peliien as if he'd just asked him to invite the king of Albion to share a warm cup of mead.

"Madness, runt. I'll not be tied to the likes of yon." Tarac's face paled at the dwarf's words.

"Like it or not, dwarf, you are tied to him. We all owe him our lives today. We need him to tell his tale to Sigund, and there could be untold numbers of enemies between us and there. Minotaurs, assassins...who knows who else might be roaming around. We'll travel fast, which means no time to hide in the forest. We'll take the coast, and be targets for any that might see us first. Would you have us die because of your pride?"

He paused as he considered his friend's mind. "You'll make a fine pet for one of his kind later. Dead, because you refuse to make your countryman stronger as he faces the same enemies as you. That's if your bones are ever found. I hear the Hibs like to sink our bodies to the bottom of the sea, to keep us from our glory."

"Madness, runt!" Blade shot again, but rose to his feet and began casting the spells that would enhance Tarac's own prowess. Pellien grinned as he joined him. Both could magnify others' abilities, in some ways similar. Being masters of healing arts, they knew ways to strengthen and quicken muscles, to harden bones. Pellien could go further, increasing coordination and removing fatigue from those around him. He could also increase the concentration of powerful mages, making their spells even more malevolent. Blade's abilities were more subtle, reaching into his allies' minds and giving them a clarity of purpose. Warriors' attacks would be swifter, mages would cast with deadly efficiency from their inner pools of mana. They could even combine their powers to grant wards protecting everyone around them from the magics of others.

From Tarac's reactions, he'd never experienced such changes to his body. The young kobold virtually glowed.

"Amazing, sirs! I feel as if the whole of Albion would fall before me!"

"Well," Pellien chided. "The war should finally be over then. I don't know why Asgard kept you from us for so long, boy."

Before leaving the ruins on Hverdrungr Hill, they checked and found to no surprise that all of the infiltrators' bodies had been removed, as well as the one minotaur they'd faced alone. It was customary for all sides in this war to leave no dead behind, whether they could be revived at a bindstone or not. They each wanted to at least make their enemies think they'd have to face the fallen again. With that in mind, the vikings then returned to the site of the battle that originally brought them to this place. Gruesome hefted the two dead shadowblades and draped them over his shoulders as they ran west along the snow-covered coast toward the large keep. They made good time, thanks to Blade's quickening magic and Pellien's spell of endurance. Within an hour of leaving the edge of Greip Forest, Blendrake Faste came into view atop a small hill. It was a huge, stone structure that covered most of the hilltop. At each corner were parapets, where archers and runemasters sat, surveying the landscape before them. Blendrake was an easily defensible keep, surrounded on the north, east and west by thick forests. No large army could easily maneuver through these, as they were teeming with deadly creatures. Smaller forces could make use of the trails though, which was why Pellien and his friends were tasked with keeping them clear of pesky beasts. Scarcely ever did more than a score of vikings move at once.

There were only two entrances to Blendrake Faste, a small portcullis to the north, not even big enough for two men to walk abreast, and a large gate to the south. The south was the only means of entrance with siege, and it faced the sea. Most attacking forces could be seen for miles ahead of time, which gave the defenders plenty of time to send scouts to light signal fires at the surrounding outposts spread out in all directions a few miles from the keep.

The keep's tower was situated along the eastern wall. A three story structure with a large hall in the bottom used for sleeping and eating. The middle tier was home to the quartermaster's and jarl's bedchambers, as well as the food stores and weapon supplies. The third floor was the war room, a large room with access to the roof by way of large wooden stairs, but only a small door led into it from the lower level. In dire circumstances, this room offered the best choice for a last stand. Small numbers had been known to hold off great forces in such rooms. They were laden with great wards from magic and siege engines. All could be decided by the heart of the defenders or attackers.

Three large norsemen met them at the southern gate. Pellien, Blade and Gruesome had never been questioned before, they were always allowed to enter the keep without a word of protest. No viking doubted the identities of a troll, dwarf and kobold traveling together. No, it wasn't the four companions that gave these guardsmen pause.

"Those things go no further than this gate, bonedancer," the larger of the three shouted through his bushy beard, waving a gauntleted hand at the skeletons that shadowed Tarac.

The younger kobold stepped forward and bowed his head to the man that towered over him. "We know they are not welcome inside, good sir. But I must warn you my others prefer to remain close to me."

"Warn me?" The big man glared down at Tarac. "You think to threaten me, little one?" His fellow guardsmen's hands went for axe handles at their waists. Pellien could feel Gruesome tense behind him. The troll could handle three men easily, but had never fought his own countrymen before.

"Oh, no, no, no, good sir. No threat at all!" Tarac's hands went up in surrender and the skeletal figures behind him mimicked his actions. "I only mean that they will not sit idly in the snow out here. They will follow me along the wall. I only warn you in the hopes that my others will not disarm you or your comrades. I swear on my honor that they mean no harm."

"Your honor, eh?" The rugged guardsmen eyed the kobold warily.

"I will vouch for the kobold's word." Gruesome's rumbling voice brought every eye to him. Pellien was shocked the troll spoke in the bonedancer's behalf. emThe boy repairs his armor once, and he starts jumping to his defense./em

"Aye, troll. His deeds be on your head then." The viking warrior nodded to the group then shouted an order to the wall behind him. Heavy chains creaked and the massive doors parted outward.

Inside the courtyard men and women moved with purpose. A group of ten or so men surrounded another two as they sparred, cheering whichever one they'd placed wagers on. A couple of women filled pitchers of water from a well near the main hall. A small kobold with a large bow on his back raced from one parapet to the next along the top of the keep's walls. Gruesome carried the corpses of the shadowblades to a spot in the southeast corner of the courtyard, and two guardsmen immediately left the nearest parapet's entrance to inspect the bodies. Pellien told them how they found the bodies, leaving out the part of how quickly they'd found them, and that the dead were beyond any hope of reviving.

"Mead," Blade growled as he walked straight to the hall's door.

"I will meet you inside," was all Gruesome said before he jogged toward the crowd of men watching the fighters. Pellien saw him slap another troll hard on the back. This one was taller than Gruesome, but not as thick. The two brutes clasped each other's right forearms in a gesture the kobold knew well. It was a test of strength and respect. They squeezed each other's arm with all their might. The one to surrender first would show deference to the victor, and answer any question asked of him. Pellien had heard of stubborn trolls refusing to concede and walking away with a broken arm. This taller one was not so obstinate. He slapped Gruesome hard on the chest a few times, indicating the berserker's victory. Pellien took great pride in the fact that he'd never seen his friend lose such a contest. The boy's strength was the stuff of legend.

Pellien nudged Tarac's shoulder. "Come with me, and we'll see if we can get an audience with Sigund. Of course, we'll have to get through Borgin first."

"Oh, yes, him." Tarac's face lost its youthful exuberance at the mention of Blendrake's quartermaster.

The small pair rushed toward the main hall, well behind their dwarf companion. They saw Blade throw open the door and greet those inside with a hearty roar. Some already drinking roared back at him. As Pellien and Tarac entered, the cantankerous old dwarf was already slapping the hindquarters of a serving wench that hurried off to get him a mug.

"Ye walk slow; bring me two, girl!" Pellien smiled at Blade's vigor. It reminded him of good times past and many a night prying his old friend from a drunken brawl.

The kobolds trudged up the wide stairs to the second level, where a troll and norseman stood at either side of an open doorway. The troll held up a large hand. "What business have you here?"

"We have urgent news for Jarl Sigund, tell him Pellien would have his ear."

"I know you, shaman, but no one sees the jarl without word from Borgin."

"Then go get him, we've no time to waste. There's treachery afoot!"

The troll harumphed Pellien's order, then lumbered into the doorway. Pellien heard him speaking to someone beyond and recognized Borgin's sharp voice. After only a moment, a tall, thin norseman stepped into the door's frame. Immaculate scarlet robes covered his entire body, save for his hands and head. Ornate trinkets and charms were placed in the most conspicuous manner possible around his bony frame, and a long black cloak adorned his back. The white emblem of his guild Dragons of Ragnarok was embroidered across his chest, a portrayal of the world serpent Jormungandr devouring its own tail. He made a grand gesture of tapping his staff heavily on the floor once with a reverberation of raw power, then raised his left hand to his hawk-like face to calmly stroke his neatly-trimmed beard and surveyed the two kobolds before him. The troll shifted impatiently behind the lean man, clearly displeased at being trapped inside the room and away from his post.

Borgin was a runemaster of purported great power. Purported, because Pellien had never seen the man in a battle. Sitting at a desk, meagerly rationing out supplies? Yes. Arguing the veracity of every talon or fang brought to him? Yes. Carefully weighing each gold piece he handed out to make sure none were heavier than the others? Yes. Using Odin's gifts to lay waste to a horde of Albion or Hibernian invaders? Not so much. His clear green eyes focused on Pellien.

"You're back too soon, guildless. You and your cohorts aren't due back from your patrol for another ten days. Unless you're here to tell me that every wight, liche, jotun and fenrir has been driven from our lands?"

"No, master Borgin. You'll not have a night of sleep free from their howling and screeching on our account. I know how unsettling the beasts can be to younger folk." Pellien never minded the man's verbal barbs, which only drove the runemaster to taunt the shaman more.

"Then why are you here, interrupting my serious business, kobold? What could possibly be so important that you need bother Sigund with your senile ramblings? And since when has this conjurer joined your little troop? Is killing the simple beasts of the forest too difficult a task for the three of you? I thought your troll was supposed to be some sort of mighty berserker. Did I judge him too highly?"

The guard behind Borgin tensed at his words and Pellien saw a snarl curl his upper lip. Trolls were notoriously loyal to their own, an insult to one was an insult to all when it came from one of the smaller races. Pellien knew the big warrior wouldn't dare cause harm to the overbearing quartermaster and that Borgin knew this as well, which was why the man never bothered to hold his tongue. Pellien steeled himself to deal with the runemaster.

"We ran into a small army of Albion assassins near the tower to the east. They were hidden in the ruins there-"

"And why were you so close to the tower?" Borgin interrupted. "You are not charged with the defense of any tower. You and your guildless friends have been set out to make sure the trails are kept clear for the real warriors of Midgard. Who gave you permission to engage the enemy?"

Pellien sighed and recanted the events of the morning, ignoring the grunts of disbelief from the hate-filled man. When he told of the minotaur's part in the day's activities, Borgin actually seemed to take notice. Pellien decided the runemaster must have thought that even a senile old kobold wouldn't have made up anything to do with the masters of the labyrinth.

"An interesting tale, shaman. Also an unbelievable one. The four of you defeating an entire army of Albion infiltrators, then running off a pack of angry minotaurs? How preposterous!"

"Tarac has seen more queerness from the minotaurs than we, Borgin. He's been watching them for some time now, and I think Sigund would want to know this!"

"Well, if it's anything a bonedancer knows, it's what is odd and what isn't. So, tell me, Tarac-" Borgin said his name as if it were a curse in and of itself. "-what have these minotaurs been doing that is so odd?"

Tarac looked as if Loki himself had asked him the question. Pellien felt genuine sympathy for the young kobold. "Well, master Borgin, there are many answers to that question-"

"Then it should be easy for you to think of one to answer me!"

"Yes, yes, of course," the bonedancer cleared his throat. "I have seen them taking men from around the tower. They take them to a hole in the ground. They take Midgardians, Hibernians and Albions indiscriminantly. Anyone in small numbers they take. Sometimes they use others to take them, men, trolls, elves, firbolg, half-ogres...I've seen them all work with the minotaurs. Even viking men."

"You make even less sense than this one, fool! The minotaurs have never attacked any of the other realms. And we've lost no more men than is usual given these times."

"BORGIN!" Pellien's voice rang with authority, and four sets of eyes focused on the aged shaman. "I normally put up with your boorishness because I have no choice. I usually allow you to treat me like an ankle-biting goblin because Sigund finds you necessary here, Odin only knows why. But I am tired of your childish prattling. You will announce our presence to Sigund now, or I will sink your bones so far into Ymir's belly you'll have to look up to see Nifleheim!"

Silence reigned outside the wide door. The two guardsmen shared a worried glance. Borgin's face went from pale white to a shade of red only slightly lighter than his robes.

"You DARE threaten me, old man?" The runemaster spread his arms and focused power into his staff. Energy crackled in the air around him.

Pellien stepped forward and crossed his arms. Ymir answered his silent summons and the stone walls of the keep shook around them. It was only a simple trick, which held no danger to anyone; but all old shamen could rattle the earth around them. Ymir was the earth, and he knew his children needed ways to remind haughty mages of the power he gave them. Tarac and the guards grabbed for the wall to steady themselves, but Borgin was ill-prepared for the minor quake. He fell backward and landed painfully on his rump. The color drained from his face again.

"You're beginning to bore me, runemaster," Pellien's voice was calm and steady. "Your power is for show, but I have led armies into battle. I have moved the mountains of Pennine, and commanded the irewoods of Cruachan Gorge. I am the favored son of the Lifegiver, and all creation bows to my will." His cool gray eyes bore into the norsemen's wide, green ones.

"Now. Go. Get. Sigund."

A hearty chuckle drifted toward them. "I'm already here, shaman. Would you kindly stop trying to tear my keep down from the inside?"

"My apologies, lord jarl," Pellien's eyes never left the runemaster as he bowed toward the stout dwarf that came into view behind him. "I was only trying to make a point."

"I would say point made, then!" Sigund helped his quartermaster to his feet. "Borgin, why don't you go make sure no one was hurt from the tremor, and that no stores were lost?" He nodded toward the troll and other norseman. "You two go see about the watchers on the walls, then retire for the evening."

"Y-yes, lord jarl," the shaken runemaster left hurriedly, giving Pellien and Tarac only momentary scowls. The guards rushed after him.

"Those two will have to be kept out of his sight until his ego heals." Sigund mused, then turned a sharp eye to the shaman. "But he'll make you pay for that, sir. You know it to be true."

"Aye, Sigund," Pellien nodded at the dwarf's words. "But, Ymir's blood, that boy should be sent to the front. Make a respectful man of him, it would."

"I can't do that, Pellien. He's important to our guild, and too important here. Blendrake is right in the middle of our frontier border, we have to support Bledmeer Faste, Hlidskialf and Glenlock at first signal fires." The jarl shook his head. "Borgin might be an insufferable bastard, but he's honest. He keeps the stores accurate, and his theatrics actually scare most of the men into behaving themselves." He tugged at his long brown beard before fixing his dark eyes on the older kobold. "But I am sorry for how he treated you. I know you and your friends aren't deserving of such."

Pellien's face softened and he waved off the dwarf's compliment nonchalantly. "Things are what they are, lord jarl. I don't blame him for his lack of respect to an old guildless wretch. But my friend here and I do have important matters to discuss with you. 'Tis a strange tale that only produces more puzzles."

Sigund nodded in acceptance. "Then meet me upstairs and we will see what answers might be found." He turned and walked briskly to another wide wooden staircase.

"Good elder," Tarac whispered to Pellien as they followed the jarl. "You can truly move mountains?" Awe shone in his wide, purple eyes.

"Don't be silly, boy, no one can move a mountain," Pellien hissed back and hurried after the dwarf.

**Chapter 7**

Pellien and Tarac stood unspeaking as Jarl Sigund looked down upon the large oak table that separated them. He had listened intently as the kobolds relayed their tales of the day to him, only interrupting them to ask perceptive questions. Pellien knew the warrior's mind worked now to understand the bizarre happenings. Tarac opened his mouth to speak, and the shaman silenced him with a raised hand. He caught the bonedancer's eyes and nodded softly. Finally, Sigund addressed them in his strong voice.

"I don't know what to make of this, shaman." He lifted his head to match eyes with the old kobold. "Assassins, I understand. Your friend there has redeemed enough of their emblems for gold to warrant a large bounty for himself. I'm sure they would cherish his death...with no thought of a bindstone returning him."

Pellien raised an eyebrow at the younger kobold and noticed the boy's cheeks grow purple in embarrassment. It seemed the more he learned about the bonedancer, the more questions arose.

"But the minotaurs?" Sigund regained Pellien's attention. "Taking men, and using others to fight for them? And so far from the Isle of Agramon? I don't doubt your words, but this is quite odd." He rapped his thick knuckles on the table.

"I understand, lord jarl." Pellien thought it best to ask for what he wanted quickly before the master of Blendrake Faste decided to waste time sending messengers back and forth between himself and King Eirik. Once rulers and their counselors got involved in any situation, decisions got made in weeks instead of hours. "All that I ask is that you excuse us from our duties on the trails and grant us the company of a few men. No more than six or seven should suffice. I feel we must search out this new entrance to the labyrinth before the Albion infiltrators return with their newly woken brothers."

Sigund nodded at Pellien. "Sound words, old friend."

The shaman felt his heart quicken in hope. Thoughts of Blade's renewed zeal raced through his mind, perhaps his old friend would maintain his bellicose ways with such activity occupying him. By Ymir, he never thought he'd dream to see the evil old dwarf tormenting others with word and deed.

"But such cannot be." Pellien's blood slowed at the dwarf's words. "I have no men to spare. And you were put to your task by General Aminad, who sits at the king's own hand. I have no authority to remove you for any reason."

Sigund tugged at his long beard as he thought. "No, you, Gruesome and Blade must return to your task. Events are happening soon that will require our troops have free roam of the frontier. I will send a couple of shadowblades to Hverdrungr Hill to search out this hole and see what is to be seen.

"You," he pointed a stubby finger at Tarac. "I have no sway over. Go where you wish, do what you will." He looked to Pellien again. "But worry not, I will send word to the king. I'm sure he will have much to discuss with the minotaur emissary about their people attacking vikings in their own land."

Pellien's heart sank further. He understood the jarl's position, but wished the dwarf's sensibility would win over. His left hand involuntarily rose to stroke his beard as he weighed the options before him, neither of which brought him joy.

"As you say, lord jarl. May we rest the night here? I feel it may be necessary, as Blade has already found his thirst."

"The old goat drinks mead today? I've only seen him take water since the three of you were sent here."

"Aye." Pellien forced a smile. "He has also found his old senses."

Sigund laughed heartily. "Well, this I cannot miss! Join me both for a mug then." He waited for no reply as he walked briskly to the door. Pellien grabbed Tarac by the arm as the dwarf passed them.

"Do you have gold?" He whispered.

"Of-of course, good elder," Tarac stammered. His eyes were wide with confusion. "Do you wish me to buy you a drink?"

"No, boy, there are more important things I need you to do. Wait until the sun sets, then find a kobold hunter in the courtyard. It doesn't matter which one. Ask him if he has any news of your cousin, then buy enough provisions for four men for a week. Get plenty of dried meat and bread, the gods only know what is down there."

"Down where?" Tarac's eyes got impossibly wider. "And I don't even have a cousin!"

"Just do this, Tarac, and prepare yourself to leave by sunrise. We'll need to be gone before the sky loses its gray." Pellien turned the younger kobold to face him directly. "All will be explained after we leave. I ask nothing ill of you. But we do what we must, understand?"

"I do, good elder. You can count on me!" His earnest face emboldened Pellien, he was glad to have found the young bonedancer. Or to have had the young bonedancer find him.

Raucous laughter greeted the kobolds as they stepped into the main hall. Blade held court with his back to the large door that led to the courtyard. Pellien and Tarac walked around to join him.

"What did you do then, old goat?" Jarl Sigund stood near the bottom of the stairs.

"What do ye think I did, fool? I headbutted him right in the coin purse!" Blade slapped his forehead as the crowd of warriors erupted again. "Ye never saw a troll drop so fast!"

Gruesome sat to Blade's left on the long stool they shared. He finished a large tankard of mead and waved to the serving wench. She hefted another of the troll-sized mugs from the bar with both hands and carried it to him. As she set it carefully before him, Blade's red-rimmed eye kept a sharp vigil on her bosom. Pellien thought the girl was barely into womanhood, a mere fraction of his wretched friend's own age. Blade had always had an appetite for younger women.

"Would you have another, sir?" she meekly asked the old dwarf.

"Aye," he drawled. "And there's other refreshment I'll have later, to be sure."

"Aye, sir."

Pellien grasped her hand as she passed, slipping a few coins into her palm. He pulled her so that she had to bend down to bring her ear next to his lips. "Make his next few drinks grog instead of mead, and he will forget his lecherous ways, girl."

She nodded briskly, then hurried on her way. The shaman walked up and clapped Blade hard on the back.

"I see you're enjoying your share of drink, old friend."

"Aye, runt, my throat feels as dry as the Stygian Delta. Where have ye and the grave-robber been?"

"Sharing the day's business with the jarl. We will speak of it later." Pellien silenced himself as Sigund took a seat across from his old friend. He moved to look up at Gruesome, even sitting the troll was twice again as tall as the kobold. He placed a hand on his large arm. "Walk with me outside."

Gruesome nodded and downed his mug in a large draught before he stood and followed the shaman into the courtyard. Pellien waved a staying hand to Tarac to keep the boy from following them. He wanted to speak freely with the berserker.

The cold air that greeted them from the door was a sharp contrast to the large fire that ruled the center of the hall. Pellien's bones ached from age; and he often dreamed of retiring to the warm climate of Myrkwood, where snow rarely fell. He supposed he could always return to the Kobold Undercity that lay beneath Jordheim, but few older kobolds ever went back there to find their ends. That place bred few pleasant memories. He drew his cloak tighter about himself.

"Any news from home?" He speculated on Gruesome's conversation with the other troll.

"Aye," the big brute rumbled. "Orkag is only just come here in the past two days. Modi favors me in that his clan knows of mine. My son grows strong and has taken up the axes. He follows my path."

"He will probably surpass you in ferocity before he takes his test of manhood, knowing his mother."

Gruesome chuckled at thoughts of his mate. "Aye, Jaba is most fierce. But she is a good wife and mother."

"And how many of your ribs did she break on the night of your binding?" Pellien favored his large friend with a wry smile.

"Only three! I will make no apologies for her spirit, old man!" Pellien knew the troll's anger was feigned, but that he was also honor-bound to defend his wife.

Family and honor was important to trollkind, and the old kobold often envied it of his friend. To be raised in the underground city of his own people was to learn deceit and betrayal. Cunning and wickedness were treasured traits, to be learned at an early age. His wife had raised their sons there, against his desires; and both had followed her into the path of shadows, Loki was their master. So few kobolds chose to learn the ways of the shaman and such was the downfall of his people. To heal and strengthen those around you was not seen as a source of power, most preferred to kill in stealth or train in destructive magics.

They did not see the power the earth gave the shaman. To have mighty Ymir, the maker of the world, at your behest was the greatest power of all. No, none of his people cared for a shaman until they were falling in battle. He looked up at the troll that lumbered to keep the slower pace of a tiny, old kobold.

_This is my family. Troll and dwarf. Brothers in blood._

"Gruesome, I know Blade's words hurt you earlier." Pellien's voice was such that only the troll could hear it. "At times, his tongue is more cruel than your hammer. Even so, isn't that why we call him 'Blade'?"

The big warrior nodded solemnly, but made no reply.

"But you must know his reasons, even if the old goat can't speak of them himself." He saw the questioning look in the mighty warrior's clear, blue eyes. "He only speaks crossly to you because he expects much of you. And he expects so much of you because he knows what you are capable of. Ymir's blood, he expects the same of us all, even himself!"

Pellien stopped as they reached an empty quarter of the courtyard. "Remember the time Zalathorn ran into that tower near Nottmoor Faste that was being taken by Hibs?"

"Aye, he fell before we could follow him."

"And who ran in after him, to bring him back from death's brink?"

A deep chuckle issued from Gruesome's wide chest. "Blade. But then those skinny firbolgs shut the door in our faces!"

"Aye, but somehow Blade got Zalathorn on his feet with what must have been twenty Hibs around them. Got him up and got him fighting."

"Then there was Modi's roar, and all those Hibs were screaming!" The troll's face gritted in remembered glee.

"It took all my strength to heal them unseen through that wall while the rest of you beat down the door. If I ever have trouble sleeping, I just recall how I felt that day."

"Pell," Gruesome's tone was somber again. "Is your point to tell me that I am not the warrior that Zalathorn was?"

Pellien sighed. "You're the fiercest berserker I've ever seen in battle, Gruesome. My point was that Blade would never want more from you than he'd want from himself. Such is his way."

The troll nodded slowly. "Aye, it is so. I have seen him perform deeds that would set the gods to trembling. All around him become stronger for his presence."

"Isn't that why you are here, young friend? Not only are you fierce, but you have heart beyond measure." Pellien thought that Gruesome would blush at his words, if such were possible from a troll. "We are both lucky to call you friend. We would have no purpose in battle without you. Just two old warriors cast to the wayside to rot." He caught the berserker's eyes again.

"Any guild would have you, Gruesome. Your skills are wasted keeping the two of us active." The troll held his gaze, but made no move to speak. "But perhaps we can change our fortunes."

"What do you mean?"

Pellien's hand found his beard. "Insubordination, my friend. You've dishonored yourself before for us, I hesitate to ask it of you again. Especially for a danger we do not know."

"You are my brothers, Pell. I go where you go. I fight your fights."

Pellien patted the side of Gruesome's thick leg. "That you do, lad. That you do." He scanned the shadowed courtyard, as the sun had already dipped past its walls. The vikings that called Blendrake Faste home wouldn't light torches until the day's light was almost gone though, and even those would be few. The moon and snow would show the guards much of what they needed to see. "We must leave before sunrise," he finally spoke. "We'll use the twilight to mask our travel. Tarac will lead us to the labyrinth."

The shaman paused again to study his friend's eyes. "I need to know what is happening here, Gruesome. I don't like questions without answers, and it seems we're the only ones that might be willing to decipher this. But you must know that we do this against orders. Even though we are not to engage the enemy, I fear we have little choice. The common beasts of the frontier will have to find their own ends without us. Do you understand what I'm asking of you?"

Gruesome's steady gaze matched his. "I do, Pellien. When it's discovered we've forsaken our duties, we will be punished. We may even be called deserters."

"Aye, my friend, it may be." Pellien's shoulders slumped as he contemplated the choice he forced this honorable warrior to make. He didn't like putting the boy in such straits.

"But, we were attacked in our own realm by the minotaurs. The bonedancer has witnessed them kidnapping our people. They make war on us." The berserker's back went straight and his broad, flat teeth gritted with displeasure. "They bring our reckoning on themselves."

Pellien chuckled at his friend's resolve. "I'm sure they will come to regret your acquaintance, boy."

Pellien was glad for the heat of the hall again. More bodies filled the tables that surrounded the long pit of crackling flames, most with a mug in front of them. The kobold knew from experience that few would match drinks with Blade. A viking's life was dedicated to battle, and to that end most preferred to keep their wits. In this time of war, sleep would come only with the fear that the enemy might attack in the night. His old friend's stubborn confidence had always given him the freedom to drink himself into a stupor. Yet even impaired, Blade was a force of nature in battle. His was truly a life given to war, it was all the dwarf knew.

Pellien saw that Blade sat in the same spot, with Tarac to his left. The bonedancer watched the old healer as one might a child playing on a high ledge, his nimble blue fingers constantly spun a dented mug. Blade sat still, his shoulders rigid and Pellien's heart sank. It was a pose he knew well after the past several months. Hopes for meaningful talk with his old friend were crushed under a weight of despair. He stepped to the dwarf's right and placed a small hand on Blade's shoulder, the dark blue of his skin was a stark contrast to the soft gold of the polished chain mail. To Pellien's surprise, Blade turned his head and clarity rose in his good right eye as if he were seeing an old friend for the first time in years.

"Runt," he exclaimed. "Sit and have a mug with me, aye. None of these bearded women can hold their mead." He lifted his own mug and chugged the strong-smelling grog within like a man dying of thirst. The dark-colored swill dribbled down his beard and fell on his belly. He swiped the back of his hand across his lips and belched. "Aye, the young folk today don't know the joy of a good drink. Look at 'em. They sit as if they'll be drawn and quartered in the morning."

Pellien looked around the great hall. Warriors talked in hushed tones, here and there a few chuckled at some jest from their companions...but the mood was undoubtedly somber. He thought it odd that he'd never noticed such gloom during the past year spent with most of these men. All were fit vikings, but there seemed to be no zest to any of them. No loud boasts of foes defeated. No brazen claims of female conquest. No gambling with cards or dice. It was a grim spectacle. Had he been so wrapped up in his own situation that he missed the lack of spirit in his fellow Midgardians?

_But why cheer your victory, when you will face the same foe the next day? What joy will Valhalla bring, if your life is already a constant battle?_

His thoughts angered him. He gripped Blade's shoulder tighter.

"Darkness falls, old goat. Keep their glowering from your mind and get some rest. We embark tomorrow on a new adventure. We go to the minotaur's labyrinth, and find ouselves a new enemy."

"New, eh?" Blade's eye almost twinkled. "Have ye grown bored of elves and ogres then, shaman?"

"No, old friend, I just woke up this morning and realized we haven't seen everything yet...and I can't die with mystery in my heart." He held the dwarf's good eye for a moment. The dwarf nodded knowingly.

"Aye, runt, no mysteries for us." He stood unsteadily and moved toward the door. "I'm off to piss."

Pellien smiled as he took Blade's seat beside Tarac. He pushed the dwarf's empty mug away and met the younger kobold's gaze. "Don't drink too much tonight, we'll be leaving early."

Tarac hefted his own mug. "Oh, never, good elder. I only partake of water. Mead and the like dull my senses, and that is not good for my others."

"Good, good," Pellien agreed. The bench shifted noticeably as Gruesome settled his bulk beside the shaman. He rested his heavy arms on the table and the old wood creaked. The three sat silently for a time until Tarac spoke again.

"Blade sat for some moments without speaking. I thought he might have fallen asleep where he was."

Pellien pursed his lips, unsure what exactly to tell the bonedancer about Blade's condition. His thoughts were broken by the cold blast of air from the drunken dwarf's return. He simply nodded, then looked up at Gruesome. The big troll's eyes matched the grim air about them. The aged shaman wondered to himself if he was driving them all to this for the right reasons. Was he truly worried about a threat to Midgard.

Or did his old bones crave the excitement of a new battle?

Erliga slumped against cool, carved stone of the tunnel. Weariness permeated her entire being. Sounds echoed around her, but seemed to come from nowhere. Every way she went, only found her more lost. Without the sun and stars, time no longer had meaning for her. Had she been here a day? A week? She knew that sleep would bring the dream, and the dream would bring direction; but how could she sleep in this place? Beasts shadowed her at every turn, she could feel their eyes. Only the steel of her blade and weight of her shield gave her comfort in the unnatural light of the minotaurs' home. Again she closed her eyes in prayer.

_All Father, why do you test me so? I am your battle maiden, and yet I flounder in this maze. Set your enemies before me, or deliver me from this perdition of oblivion._

She sighed and pushed herself away from the wall. She was Valkyrie, mistress of Odin...she would not sit idly and waste away while her master's task went undone. Even if that task was unknown to her.

**Chapter 8**

Gruesome was shaken awake. His troll eyes adjusted easily to the dark and Pellien's dark blue, age-lined face came into view.

"We leave soon," the shaman whispered before he moved off to wake Tarac in the same manner.

Gruesome rolled to a sitting position on the hard floor of Blendrake Faste's hall and stretched his broad back. The embers of the great fire pit glowed softly in the center of the big room, and all around him vikings snored. Before him, Blade donned his armor as if in a trance. The dwarf stared ahead, his fingers working straps on their own volition. The big troll's heart sank. He hoped drink and sleep hadn't returned Blade to the living shell his friend had been for the past year. Ever since his last Returning. Gruesome reached for his armor from where it lay in a large pile beside him and busied his mind with the thoughts of mundane tasks instead.

Outside the hall, dark still held the day. The four vikings made their way to the small postern on the north wall of the keep. Gruesome hefted the tightly packed bundle Tarac had brought in the night before. The berserker was amazed at how kobolds always seemed to be able to get supplies after the quartermaster had retired for the night. The bonedancer's pack was filled with dried meat and hard bread. Gruesome thought he even smelled some cheese, but that would be ridiculous. Only the jarl got cheese.

They were greeted at the gate by two stern vikings, a dwarf and a troll, both bearing large shields. They nodded curtly to Blade and Pellien before Gruesome caught the wary stares they gave Tarac. The troll rapped a large fist on his shield at the berserker, then slowly shifted his gaze back to the bonedancer while craning his neck ever so slightly. Gruesome took the gesture as a warning, but didn't know why. Then he was halted by Blade's thick frame.

The old dwarf stood a few paces outside the small gate, staring along the wall to the west. Gruesome followed his gaze to the small strip of earth at the wall's base where the snow had been stripped away. Blade walked along the cleared ground and the troll trudged after him. He caught Pellien watching them with a bemused grin, but Tarac kept his head down. The three let Blade lead them to the western corner of the keep, where all but the bonedancer stood in stomach-churning awe.

"What in Hel's arse have ye done, boy?" Blade's raspy voice was almost hushed.

Four skeletons knelt before a huge pile of snow that had been raked by bony fingers into the shape of a man. It stood three heads taller than Gruesome and twice as wide. Large eye sockets were carved into the face, and a wide ghostly smile spread underneath those. While there wasn't much of a resemblance, Gruesome had the sick feeling that these creatures had built this as an homage to their master. The snowy form glowed in the moonlight and the troll felt a chill that had nothing to do with the Midgard winter cold. Tarac broke the stunned silence after Blade's question.

"I grew up on the isle of Aegirhamn." He stopped and cleared his throat nervously. "We never had snow. I've always enjoyed the snow since I've been out here, I wish I could have seen some as a child." He spread his hands out towards his minions, and they sprang to their feet and rushed to their places behind him. Blade cursed loudly and lifted his shield high across his body. Tarac raised his head and fixed Gruesome with an imploring gaze. "Last night, I dreamed I was a boy again. And that it snowed in Aegirhamn, and I gathered all that fell and built a snowman in the middle of the city. All the people came out and marveled at what I'd done."

The four stood quietly for a moment, the bitter wind ruffling their cloaks. A hearty laugh cracked the silence.

"Ymir's blood, boy," Pellien said between guffaws. "You mean these demons made this for you because of a dream?" He drew the last word out like it was a fine wine on his tongue, then laughed again.

"They only wish to please, good elder," the bonedancer exclaimed defensively.

"Well, tonight, I hope you dream of Blade in pigtails then. Now that would be a sight!" The shaman's goad brought a grumbled curse from the dwarf. Gruesome couldn't help but laugh.

"I don't know that I could if I tried." Tarac actually seemed to consider the idea.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when they reached an area south of Hverdrungr Hill that contained the remains of a farm. Some bold norsemen had sought to make a true home here in the dangerous frontier of Midgard. Gruesome wondered if it was the weather, the wild beasts or the war that ended whoever's experiment it was.

_Maybe his name was Hverdrungr, that would explain the hill's name._

His idle musings were interrupted by the bonedancer.

"There is an outcropping of rock this way, it looks like it might have been a well at one time. I've often wondered if it always led to the minotaur's labyrinth."

Gruesome imagined a band of bloodthirsty minotaurs rising from the farm's drinking water and taking umbrage with an old norseman milking a cow, and the thought made him chuckle. Pellien gave him a sidelong glance.

"Have you ever been into the labyrinth, Tarac?" The older kobold turned his attention back to the bonedancer.

"I? Oh, never, good elder." Tarac clasped his purple-gloved hands in front of himself. "My others and I prefer more open ground."

"Hmm," Pellien rubbed his beard idly. "None of us have ever been either. I've talked to some that have, but they only spoke of entering from the Isle of Agramon. We've no idea what to expect once we enter here."

Gruesome looked forward to fighting more of the two-legged cows. "I expect to kill more of them, Pell. How about you, Blade?"

"Hmph," was all the old dwarf offered. The trip from Blendrake Faste found Blade more distant with each moment. Gruesome found it hard to look into his glassy right eye again, so he focused on the worn black patch that covered the healer's left. The past year caught up to the troll again, Blade's vitality from the day before seeming to have passed.

They followed Tarac to a crumbled mound of stones, steam rising from a mostly circular hole in the middle. Two ropes, each as thick as a norseman's arm, were wrapped around large stones laying on the ground. Heavy iron spikes were driven through the ropes into the stones of what used to be the well. Whoever had set these ropes here meant for them to hold a heavy load. Gruesome peered into the misting hole and could make out a faint yellow light a few yards down. He shared a nod with Pellien, then swung himself easily into the well, grasping a heavy cord in each hand.

The bulky troll walked backwards down the wall of the well with ease, his mind prepared for the sharp pain of a stab in the back. He trusted the kobold and dwarf to mend any wound. Gruesome dropped the final few feet and brought his hammer and axe to bear before his large boots thumped heavily on the stone floor. He whirled around to face whatever enemy might be coming at him. But none were there. He faced a large opening as wide as two trolls that led to a set of stone stairs three strides away. A large crystal glowed with soft yellow light and gave the small tunnel an odd sense of warmth. He listened intently, but heard no approaching steps or warning snarls.

"Seems clear," Gruesome called up to his friends as he stepped closer to the opening.

He spun with weapons raised at the sound of a rattling crash behind him. A mass of bones writhed around at the bottom of the well. Tarac's larger pet pulled itself free from the rest, it's left leg and right arm twisted sickeningly. The two that carried maces moved to the side in hitched steps, one's head hanging upside down against its back while the other held its own leg in place with its left hand. The smallest skeleton crawled on the ground, dragging bent and broken legs behind it.

Blade followed soon after them, his stubby fingers gripping one of the large ropes as he lowered himself down. Pellien was right behind him using the other rope. Once they were safely at the bottom, Gruesome saw Tarac begin to lower himself down in a similar fashion. The troll noted with respect that the bonedancer had waited at the top to protect the shaman and healer from any danger.

"What do we do about them?" Gruesome waved his hammer at Tarac's skeletal lackeys. The bonedancer smiled broadly.

"Worry not, good troll."

The little weaponless skeleton made its way to one of the walls and braced its back against it. Once its torso was upright, it waved it's bony hands in the air. To Gruesome's shock, magic energy spread around its body and its misshapen legs contorted and cracked and pulled themselves back into shape.

"Ymir take me and spit me back up," Pellien said with awe. The shaman approached the little skeleton and keenly inspected it. The ghastly healer raised its arms again and repeated its spell on each of the other skeletons. Their blanched bodies reshaped themsleves with snaps and cracks. Pellien clapped his hands together and laughed.

"I had no idea these things could use magic!" The older kobold turned to face a beaming Tarac. "How is such a thing possible?"

"This one was a healer in life, good elder, not a warrior like the others." The bonedancer walked to the little skeleton and brushed dirt off it's gleaming skull. "What the body knows in life, it knows in death. She must have been a mighty one, she has saved us all from the great void many times." It was an odd sight to Gruesome, to see a small kobold looking at a skeleton head and shoulders taller than himself with fatherly eyes.

"You and I must have a long talk someday, Tarac." Pellien arched an eyebrow at the younger kobold. "But let's see what we can find down here first." The old shaman turned toward the stone steps, his sharp eyes studying the illuminating crystal. "These beasts use magic freely, it seems."

"Aye, Pell," Gruesome rumbled. "Who knows what traps lie ahead."

The kobold nodded at his words as he took his place at the fore of their group. Gruesome fell in step behind him, returning his hammer and axe to their straps on his hips. Blade followed after without a word, and Tarac shadowed the dwarf while his skeletal servants clattered behind him. Together, the four vikings began their descent into the labyrinth of the minotaurs.

Erliga waved aside the goblin's spear with her heavy shield and sliced her sword in a downward arc at the creature's exposed side. It yelped in pain and she quickly ended its life with a thrust to its wicked heart. Another of the beasts lunged at her with spear held low. She parried its weapon to the side and opened her mouth in a piercing scream. The magic of Valhalla flowed from her voice and the goblin's head was wreathed with white fire. Her right arm shot forward, and her blood-coated blade found its way through the monster's throat. It gargled its final breath out as it fell to the ground.

She wiped the black blood from her sword on one of the creatures' thin tunics, then held her ground defensively. No attack came from the shadows, no arrow whizzed toward her. emOnly two this time, only two. Thank All Father only two. /emDespite the cool of the tunnel, sweat ran from her brow. She rummaged through the corpses and hope and joy coursed through her at her find. The first one had a small water-skin on its belt. Her hands shook as she untied it and brought it to her lips. She greedily slurped the few swallows of acrid water.

No food, but at least she was able to quench her thirst somewhat. She felt her strength renewed and her spirit quickened. As long as she drew breath, she would see to Odin's purpose.

**Chapter 9**

One thing worried Gruesome more than the mystical lights and the quaking tunnel...the eerie silence. No sounds drifted up to them. No trickle of water, no soft breeze to indicate a large opening ahead, no echo of even their own footsteps. It was as if the very air was muted around them. The troll had been to every underground lair imaginable, from the caverns that were home to the savage vendos to the frozen tomb of an ancient dragon in the Tuscaran Glacier; and none were as unnatural as the minotaurs' home. His hands found comfort on the heads of the arcanium hammer and axe that swung on his hips.

Pellien dropped to one knee and placed his right hand on the floor. Gruesome couldn't see the shaman's face from the veil of his cloak's hood, but could feel the old kobold's concentration thicken the air around them. The troll could hear Tarac shift restlessly behind him. Finally, Pellien lifted himself up slowly.

"None of this is as Ymir made it," the shaman's clear voice was barely above a whisper, but still easily heard. "Old magic made this place. Old magic keeps it."

"What do you mean, Pell?" Gruesome felt his own words rumble too loudly from his throat and feared discovery by unknown spies. But Pellien seemed unworried.

"These halls, these stairs...they were not carved with hammer and chisel. Do you feel the heaviness of the air? It is a magic I've never felt before." He paused and stroked his beard. "It is ancient, unlike anything I've felt in all of Midgard, Albion or Hibernia. It reminds me of Atlantis. But darker."

"Darker, good elder?" It was Tarac's turn to question the older kobold.

"Aye, boy." Pellien turned to face them all. Then locked eyes with the bonedancer. "You are a conjurer. Do you only use your senses to draw on your own power?"

"I-," the younger kobold stopped, then rubbed his hands together nervously. Pellien dismissed further comment with a wave of his hand.

"Matters for another time, Tarac. Just know that this entire labyrinth is unnatural, and perhaps that is why it trembles so. It is a place that should not be." He turned back toward the descending steps. "Strong magic keeps this place. But it cannot hold the world at bay forever."

The companions resumed their wordless journey. They passed three more landings before the stairs ended in a short room with a high ceiling. A large open doorway stood opposite them. Gruesome drew his weapons from his sides and stepped in front of Pellien.

A huge hall stretched out before him, with equal-sized branches going left and right. The troll noted more of the minotaur statues dotting long intervals along every wall. More mystical torches and crystals maintained the same level of light as in the stairwell, but the air was not so dense in the larger space here. Still, a spine-tingling silence pervaded the area.

"No guards?" Pellien asked behind him.

"None to be seen," Gruesome cautioned. "I've never known a people so arrogant as to dismiss any thought of intruders."

"Aye, good troll," Tarac appeared at the berserker's side, his shambling minions close behind him with weapons drawn. "Even the savage Redcaps of Modernagrav keep sentries, and they are barely more than animals." Gruesome had heard tales of the misshapen gnomes that lived in the wilds of the isle of Aegir.

"Well," Pellien said as he took his place in front of the big troll again. "At least they keep their home well-lit for us. There's no way one of those cows will be able to sneak up on us."

Tarac gasped in pain to Gruesome's right as if to rebut the shaman's words. A spear stuck out from his side, and holding the spear was a goblin. It was large for its kind, bigger than the kobold; and its yellow eyes gleamed with an intelligence the troll had never seen from such a creature. It wrenched its weapon from the bonedancer and grinned evilly.

Before Pellien or Blade could begin to cast a healing spell, Tarac reached his left hand toward the goblin. A dark mist bridged the gap between the two, and the kobold's green-skinned foe hissed in agony. Immediately, Tarac regained his composure from his wound at the same time as his skeletal guardians threw themselves upon their master's attacker.

Instinct drew Gruesome's weapons to bear in front of Pellien before he made out the shadowy form of another goblin getting position on the shaman. These beasts could use stealth magic! The tiny spear bounced harmlessly off his big axe blade. Just as the goblin came into view, the troll's hammer found its head and sent its lifeless body tumbling to the left. Two more of the creatures popped into sight as they tumbled over their comrade. Gruesome heard Blade casting a spell behind him, and felt the dwarf's quickening magic course through his muscles. He was on the two goblins before they were ready. One was relieved of its head by his axe. The other was sent flying into the halls' intersection like a rag doll. As it landed on a large plate of checkered stone, huge spikes shot from the floor and impaled the dying beast before disappearing just as quickly.

Gruesome turned, looking for more attackers, only to find Tarac's skeletons finishing off one goblin while the bonedancer ended another's life in a cloud of blood-red energy. The troll counted six dead among their enemies, and no others bold enough to join them. He felt certain wicked eyes watched them though.

"They were a brazen lot," Pellien said as he nudged the decapitated corpse with his boot. "They bear no markings of rank or clan, just like assassins from the surface." He bent down and picked at the body. "Nothing of value on this one, just a small water-skin and a few coins."

Gruesome pointed his hammer at the goblin that lay in the middle of the three great halls. "And now we see why the minotaurs don't guard this place themselves."

"Aye," Pellien agreed. "Goblin assassins, floor spikes...and we've only just entered this gods-forsaken place!"

"Whichever way should we go?" Tarac was wide-eyed beside them now, in a bony cage of protective skeletons.

"Hmmph," the shaman thought briefly. "Left, we go left. Just keep to the walls."

"Why left, good elder?" The bonedancer peered at Pellien intently. "Do you sense more of their magic that way?"

"What? Magic? No! Left because it's closer. Stop reading into everything, boy."

Gruesome grinned to himself as he took his place behind the old kobold. The four stayed close to the labyrinth's wall, avoiding any other traps that might lie in the wide floor of the hall. Blade followed silently behind the troll, and Tarac's minions tailed the bonedancer carefully. Gruesome imagined they made for an odd sight, four vikings trailed by four skeletons walking single file along the wall of such a great space. But Pellien's caution always served them well.

Soon, the massive tunnel they followed turned right, with still no sign of more goblins. Gruesome discovered that the light was such that it gave good visibility close, but made what lay ahead hard to discern. It didn't help that the light spread evenly throughout the whole cavern. There were no shadows to judge distance; the floors and walls were uniform, broken only by the large statues. It gave the whole place a sense of endlessness.

Eventually, they came to another intersection of halls. Pellien stopped them and studied each, his head cocked to one side as he listened. He lifted his wrinkled blue face and sniffed the air. The shaman rubbed his beard in thought.

"What is it, Pell?" Gruesome knelt behind the small kobold so he wouldn't have to raise his voice. He could feel Tarac and Blade press in behind him.

"Noise to the right, but it is faint. Like a large crowd in the distance." He looked to the passage ahead, then turned to stare at the one leading left. To Gruesome, they all looked the same. "This way goes down. The air is cooler, denser. But there is something else."

Pellien turned his head to look Gruesome in the eyes. The berserker saw worry in the shaman's gray ones.

"I smell blood."

Gruesome rose and pulled his hammer and axe from their straps. Blood always demanded more blood.

The left passage led to another wide stairwell going further down. After two of the half-moon landings, they found themselves facing a long hall identical to the ones above, except for two small doorways to the left and right. And the dead goblins. Four of the beasts' bodies lay strewn about. Gruesome joined Pellien in checking the corpses while Tarac stood dutifully beside the mute Blade.

"Clean kills," the troll announced. "With a good blade."

"Hmph," Pellien grunted his agreement. "Some magic was used here. Familiar, but unknown to me." The kobold followed a blood trail to the open passage on the left. Gruesome and the other followed.

They were in a small room with a dark opening on the opposite wall. Voices drifted to them from the darkness. They were angry, taunting voices. Gruesome looked from Pellien to Tarac, then hefted his weapons and stepped into the blackness.

He entered a narrow, unlit hallway that ended in a rectangle of dull, red light. He could make out snarls of rage coming from the same direction. Gruesome jogged toward the end of the hall, prepared to smash whatever came at him first. He heard the clattering of the bonedancer's pets hurrying to catch up to him.

He stepped into the red-lit room, to be greeted by the back of a troll about his own height. It wore brown, studded armor and held an axe in each hand. In front of the troll was a dwarf, also holding two axes and similarly armored. A wild-haired celt in scale armor banged a large mace on a shield, while two thin figures in robes pointed long staves at a smaller form huddled against the wall.

It was a woman, a norsewoman, Gruesome could tell. Her long blonde hair was tied into a warrior's tail that hung from the back of a winged helm. She held a large, ornate shield high against her chest; and her right arm waved an equally-impressive longsword at her tormentors. Her helm and chain armor gleamed like pure gold, but her face was a contest of fear and determination. As her blue eyes discovered Gruesome, fear won out. She shook her head, defeated.

"Hey!" The berserker roared at the troll and dwarf before him. "What's going on here?"

Shock replaced fear on the pretty norsewoman's face. The other five turned slowly to acknowledge Gruesome's presence. The troll and dwarf, fellow sons of Modi as it seemed, glared at him. He found no brotherhood in their eyes, only manic rage. They lifted their weapons in unison and charged Gruesome with anguished roars.

For the first time in his life, Gruesome found himself facing his own countrymen in a battle for blood.

The two berserkers lunged at him, axes swinging. Gruesome stepped to the right, avoiding the troll, and slapped the dwarf's axes away with his hammer. He slashed down with his own axe, and the stout dwarf yelped in pain as blood gushed from its shoulder. The troll leapt toward Gruesome and was halted by twining roots rising from cracks in the floor. Pellien's spell went unheard over the roars of their foes.

The celt thrashed his arms about, trying to free himself. Then he stopped and spread his arms wide. Alien words bellowed from his throat and pinpoints of bright light invaded Gruesome's mind. The tiny stars danced in his eyes, and he felt his limbs grow heavy. His own voice screamed at him, from some great distance away

_Break the hold, fool! Wake yourself!_

But the lights pushed the thought away.

Pain washed over him like cold water and pulled him from his mystical slumber in an instant. His eyes focused on the troll in front of him, its axe still buried in his side. With a roar, Gruesome kicked the treacherous brute square in the gut and sent it flying back, where it tripped over the wounded dwarf. He screamed in agony as the axe was wrenched from his flesh.

Orange flames surrounded Gruesome and crashed against the elemental barriers held in place by Pellien. The troll looked past the downed berserkers to see one of the thin figures stamp its foot in outrage, it looked to be a pale-skinned avalonian. The other mage, a long-haired elf woman, raised her staff and began casting a spell. She was interrupted by the young norsewoman's shield when it was slammed into her side. Pellien leapt into action to Gruesome's right; his tiny hands wove through the air and their five adversaries all howled in pain as a reddish cloud of poisoned air covered them. Tarac's larger skeleton threw itself at the celt, two-handed sword ringing loudly in the small room off the Hibernian's shield. The troll and dwarf charged Gruesome together while Blade's healing magic burned through his wound.

Gruesome had the advantage of strength and quickness over the two, and used both. He punched his hammer at the dwarf's head, causing the smaller man to duck away from him. The slower troll's axes were easily evaded, but Gruesome's made a long gash up the brute's left arm. He followed the attack with a whirl of his right arm over his head, catching the troll on its shoulder and using his momentum to spin around and slash his axe down at the dwarf. The little berserker caught the blow with both axes, but was knocked back by the force. Gruesome heard the sounds of mixed combat around him. A male voice grunted in pain amid the cacophony of spells being cast. He faced his two traitorous countrymen, rage exploding from their eyes.

They roared in tandem and threw their weapons to the stone floor as they charged. Gruesome looked on in shock as an all-too-familiar scene played out in stark perversion before him. All berserkers wore armor designed to survive the change, and these were no different. The seams along the insides of their arms, along their ribs and down their legs split from the instant growth of bone and muscle. Their faces elongated and hair sprouted from every area of exposed flesh as Modi's terrible gift transformed them into half-bear beasts of savage destruction. And just like that, Gruesome's advantage of strength was lost.

The dwarf-bear slammed into him, powerful jaws locking onto his upper thigh. He smashed the haft of his hammer down on the beast's back, to no avail. He knew from experience that the creature would ignore all pain and only continue to press the attack. A berserker in this form had only one thought...kill as brutally as possible. Sharp claws dug into his flesh through his armor as the troll-bear grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him like a sack of wheat. He flew through the air with the dwarf-bear still attached to his leg and landed roughly on Blade before sliding into the wall behind him.

The troll-bear slapped Pellien away with a strong paw as it advanced on Gruesome, the little kobold tumbled into a mass of skeletons. The dwarf-bear's claws tore into the troll's leg and it pulled away from him in an attempt to rip armor, flesh and muscle from his leg. Gruesome roared in pain and brought both clenched fists down on the little berserker's back. The deviant beast broke away with a snarl and lunged again, Gruesome saw his own blood dripping from its fangs. He dropped his useless hammer and axe and wrestled the dwarf-bear into his arms. The two rolled on the floor as Gruesome tried to get his arms around the traitor's neck while it scraped his body with its claws. Pain erupted in his sides as the troll-bear lifted him up, then agony turned his vision white. The larger berserker clamped vicious jaws on his right shoulder from behind. Gruesome used his own anger to push through the pain. He wrapped his left arm around the dwarf-bear's head and grabbed its snout. With a strength born of rage and desperation, he held onto the smaller form with his inflamed right arm and twisted with his left. The beast's head twisted awkwardly, tendons and hardened muscles snapped from the force.

Gruesome kicked the thing away, then reached up to the troll-bear's face still buried in his flesh. His left thumb found an eye, and he gouged into it. Still, the savage heretic did not release itself. It shook him violently, sending a shock wave of pain throughout his body. He groped blindly at the floor until his right hand found the rounded shaft of his hammer. Gruesome grasped the weapon at the base of its arcanium head and brought it up as hard as he could. He smashed into the troll-bear's head, but the beast still held firm. He felt his feet lifted off the floor, then he was slammed face-first into the wall. The jaws ripped free of his shoulder, only to clamp onto his neck. He screamed in anger and pain.

Gruesome was dropped to the floor in a heap. He rolled painfully to his side and stared up at his killer. Blood and drool trailed from the troll-bear's gaping maw and its eyes stared dully ahead. A sword protruded from its belly, then was wrenched free with a feminine grunt. The beast fell to its knees, then the blade appeared again through its open mouth. The pretty norsewoman stood over the crumpling form and wiped her sword clean on its fur. She met Gruesome's eyes and nodded solemnly.

His bones and flesh knit themselves painfully as Pellien and Blade poured mending magic into him. Gruesome looked around in a daze. The celt, elf and avalonian lay dead. Tarac and his minions stood beyond the corpses. Blade, Pellien and the norsewoman stood behind the fallen troll. All five vikings watched silently as the dwarf- and troll-bears reverted to their natural forms, Modi's gift leaving their dead bodies. The shaman waved a hand over each, then shook his head slowly, his eyes locked on the floor. Gruesome knew his meaning...they would not be brought back to this life.

Rage, sorrow and frustration filled the troll to breaking. An anguished roar released them from his soul.

**Chapter 10**

Tarac cringed at Gruesome's animalistic bellow. The troll pounded his fists into the ground and leapt to his feet.

"NO!" The berserker shouted then kicked the fallen troll's body. He roared again and charged at the dead celt, lifting the corpse with one massive hand. Gruesome brought the face to his own and stared briefly at it before he threw it against the wall. "NO, NO, NO, NO!"

The enraged troll grabbed the female elf's form and smashed it into the stone floor. Bones crunched and blood spurted out of the woman's death wound. Three of Tarac's others shrank away from Gruesome, as if they feared he might turn his rage on them. But his champion pushed himself in front of its master protectively. Tarac only stared in horror as the troll stomped on the body of the Albion man. He'd never seen the dead treated with such contempt. This was not the quiet warrior he'd met the day before; and Tarac felt like a perverse voyeur, peeking at Gruesome's grief through an open window. Wide tears flowed down the troll's cheeks as he railed against the loss of his fellow vikings.

"WHY? Why would they make us kill them?" Gruesome asked the ceiling. He sank to his knees and moaned as he wept.

"They were not themselves." All eyes turned to the young norsewoman as she spoke, her voice was clear and filled with authority. "There was nothing left in them that made them vikings, troll. No dream of Valhalla remained in their souls."

"They were the odd ones, good lady." Tarac felt embarrassed when she turned her attention to him, and cast his eyes to the floor.

Tarac moved to where he could see the woman's face. She was beautiful, her skin pale and smooth. Her long, blonde hair shined like the gold of her armor and her eyes were the deep blue of the ocean that surrounded his home, Aegir. There was a slight gauntness to her cheeks born of exhaustion, but the determination that showed in the set of her full lips and bright eyes only made her more beautiful for it. He couldn't help but feel a quiet reverence for this woman who seemed to be no older than himself.

Pellien approached Gruesome and placed a hand on the troll's shoulder. "You did what you had to do, son." He nodded to the young woman. "We all did."

The mournful berserker shook his head. "Then why did Modi let them use his gift against me? Am I not his son as well? Why would he punish me so?"

"Bogdar teaches that the gods do not make us what we are, Gruesome." Tarac stepped in front of the big troll. "The spirit of rage existed within them, just as you. Can you say that you have only used the power of the bear to honor Modi? Or was it for your own glory?"

Gruesome's eyes flickered anger at the bonedancer, then softened as he considered his words.

"Aye, it is so." He nodded his large head. "Modi does not care how I kill my enemies, only that I do so."

"If it brings you any solace, I believe that Bogdar will shepherd their souls until such time as they are ready to redeem themselves. Only then will he let them be born anew. Perhaps this was the only way they could have escaped the minotaurs' enslavement."

"No, bonedancer," Gruesome's eyes were clear and grim. "That does not comfort the fact that I drew lifeblood from my brothers." He rose to his feet slowly, then walked over to where his hammer lay on the floor and picked it up.

Pellien walked over to the young woman and eyed her carefully. His hands waved in her direction, and he cast several spells upon her. She took a deep breath as the enhancing magic flowed through her body. Tarac remembered how he felt when Blade and Pellien had first placed their charms on him. He felt stronger, his hands more nimble, his mind clearer. Magic flowed through his body with ease, and spells seemed to throw themselves from his hands. It was an amazing feeling, to be made more than what he was.

"Thank you," the pretty woman said once the older kobold was finished. "I've heard of the power you shamans grant to others. But it's another thing to experience it for one's self."

Pellien nodded. "My pleasure, young lady. You look like you haven't slept in days." He pulled a water-skin from his waist, and pulled out a small pouch and removed some dried meat from it. He handed both to the norsewoman. "You look as if you could use these as well. Don't worry, we have plenty."

She lightly licked her lips and quickly sheathed her sword. She gently took the waterskin from Pellien and bowed her head to him. "My thanks again, shaman."

"Drink slowly at first, girl. Or you'll hurt yourself."

She nodded at Pellien and tentatively sipped the water, her eyes closed in sweet relief. Pellien walked towards the fallen mages, felled by the woman's own sword in the fight. For one fighting thirst and exhaustion, Tarac had seen her move with deadly speed once the conjurers' attentions were drawn from her. The bonedancer could scarcely take his eyes off the young woman. The hardness in her eyes did nothing to lessen her beauty. But it wasn't just her physical allure that entranced him, there was an aura about her that he'd never encountered before. After a few sips, she took a longer draught, then began working on the bit of meat.

"My name is Pellien." The shaman's voice broke Tarac's reverie. He turned to see the older kobold examining the pulpy remains of the elf. "The dwarf there is called Blade, a proven son of the goddess Eir."

"I am Gruesome," the troll said flatly from where he stood by the door they had entered.

"And I am Tarac!" The younger kobold wished he hadn't sounded so eager when he answered, and felt his face flush when the pretty young woman looked at him. She gently swallowed the mouthful of meat.

"My name is Erliga." Her back straightened as she said her name, and her eyes brightened from within as if by fire. "Mistress of Odin, Shieldmaiden of the Aesir, Chooser of the Slain." Power flowed from her words, as if they were spoken by more than one voice.

Pellien and Gruesome turned toward the Valkyrie, their faces wide with awe. Each slowly bent to one knee and bowed their heads low. Tarac knew such women were important to vikings that worshipped the gods of Asgard, but wasn't sure why. He looked from the shaman to the berserker, then to Blade. He felt awkward at being the only one besides the dwarf not bowing to the young lady, so he dropped to his knee. His others gathered around him, but remained standing. He was sure they would give away his ruse to the woman. Shame caused him to drop his face, and he hoped she would not see his false reverence.

"Rise, children," she waved her hand to include them all. "I have been sent here to serve you, not be served by you." Tarac rose to his feet first, but kept silent.

"Dear lady, why are you here? And why alone in this place not of our gods?" Worry filled Pellien's words.

"The All-Father has sent me here on a quest, but he does not tell me why. I have only come to Midgard in the past few weeks." She walked to the wall and settled herself down with a sigh. "As soon as I entered the mortal world, I was plagued with strange, terrible dreams. I would see the souls of vikings disappear into a dark void. They ran to it as if to war, willingly. I asked other valkyrie about it, but none knew of what I spoke. They told me it was merely my spirit adjusting to the flesh."

She looked up and Tarac saw fear cloud her beautiful eyes. "But there was more. A voice spoke to me, told me that the souls fled here. It was a man's voice, but I could not say that it belonged to Odin. It was so far away. But it told me that something stole my warriors from me, drew them from Valhalla's call."

Pellien and Gruesome listened raptly to Erliga's words. Tarac found himself more cowed by her tale. He was raised in Bogdar's faith, an ancient god that only dealt with souls. He never manifested himself in the physical world. Even the magic that bonedancers used came from themselves. His others were the bones of fallen warriors, the souls long since gone. That was the bargain with Bogdar, only spiritless bodies could be used by his followers. They would never manipulate a person's soul for their own gain.

"So, I joined a large expedition to the Isle of Agramon," Erliga's clear voice began again after another sip of water. "Once inside, the dreams were stronger. I was with the group for two days, but they refused to go where I needed. I set out on my own.

"That's when I first began to encounter the goblins. They attacked me when I tried to sleep the first time. Five of them. They thought me easy prey. Then three, then almost always two at a time. I ran out of food and water and stopped sleeping. Without the sun and sleep, time ran from me. I have no idea how long I have been down in this place." She nodded to the entrance. "Outside there, an army of the beasts fell upon me. I slew four of them and ran this way. As soon as I entered the dark hallway, they stopped following me. They simply stared at me as I backed away from them."

"Aye, we saw your kills, lady." Pellien regarded her solemnly. "Were you wounded?"

"I was, but I was able to heal myself once they refused to follow."

"It was your blood that drew us this way then." The shaman approached the valkyrie and held his palm out toward her. "Your skills at healing must be great indeed. I have no sense of any harm to you."

Her headed lifted sharply. "I am no stranger to battle, shaman!"

Pellien chuckled softly. "Forgive an old man his worry, my dear. It's what I do best."

Her eyes softened. "My apologies, kobold. I'm sure you meant no disrespect." Her shoulders slumped a bit as if a weight had been removed. "Once I found my way to this room, I became a bit more cautious. With good cause, it was only a few yards from here that these five found me. As soon as I saw those two," she gestured to the dead dwarf and troll. "I knew that they were not right. They did not have viking souls.

"I ran, but they were faster. They trapped me in here."

"Then we came at the right time, good lady," Tarac smiled toward her.

Erliga shook her head. "I do not think they meant to kill me, Tarac. And there was no lust in their eyes. I think they meant to take me prisoner. They had ample time to do what violence upon me that they wished."

"But the celt was able to spellbind me," Gruesome's deep voice rumbled for the first time since he'd introduced himself. "Why did he not just put you to sleep?"

Erliga's head shook again. "I cannot say, troll."

"He placed his spell on all of us, Gruesome," Tarac remembered the bright lights that had mesmerized him. "Luckily, the wizard's fire interrupted it."

"Yes," Pellien laughed. "They were not so good at combining their efforts. Even those berserkers rushed to Modi's gift a little soon, it seemed to me."

"Aye," Gruesome agreed and rubbed his right shoulder. Tarac winced as he thought of how the two had mauled the troll. The kobold knew that his small body could not have survived such an assault.

"Now," Erliga fixed each of them with her deep eyes. "What brings you four here?"

"Them," Pellien waved his hand at the dead bodies.

"The odd ones," Tarac spoke without thinking. When the valkyrie and shaman looked at him, he felt his color rise. "Well, they seem odd to me." He smiled and lowered his face, silently cursing himself for not holding his tongue. He was sure they all thought him a fool.

"That they are, boy." Pellien walked to the celt's corpse and kicked at it.

"And what of the dwarf?" Erliga drew the shaman's attention again. "What ails him?" She pulled herself to her feet and approached Blade. "His spirit feels so thin to me." She studied the old dwarf's face. He stared back at her impassively.

"I fear that might be an effect of the binding stones, my lady." Pellien turned to face her.

Erliga swore in an un-ladylike manner under her breath. "Cursed creations," she said a bit louder. "Have you all been corrupted so by these things?"

"I have been Returned three times." Tarac was shocked by Gruesome's words. The bonedancer had always heard of warriors being revived from death at the stones, but never experienced it for himself. The assassins he fought had never proven themselves his betters.

"And I two." Gruesome started at Pellien's admission. "It was before your time, boy. When I was young and foolish."

"And what about this one?" Erliga motioned to Blade.

"Five times," Gruesome bowed his head as he said the number.

"Nine times." Pellien raised an eyebrow at the troll's wide eyes. "Also before your time."

Tarac felt light-headed. Nine times. The old dwarf had known death nine times. His soul had crossed the threshold of the mortal world nine times. He had never heard of such a thing. He heard the valkyrie drawn in a sharp breath. She removed the chain gauntlet from her right hand and stepped closer to Blade.

"You poor soul," she whispered as she caressed his cheek with her fingers.

Blade drew in a deep breath, like a drowning man pulled to the surface. His right eye focused on Erliga and he stumbled backwards and fell soundly on his rump. The pretty woman knelt beside him, her hand pressed against his face, like a mother comforting her child.

"The drums, lady. I hear the drums always." The old dwarf's voice was raspy and broken. Tears streamed down his right cheek. He drew in another ragged breath.

"Valhalla calls you, son of Eir. It draws you ever closer." Silent tears shone on the valkyrie's face. Tarac watched in awe. Pellien and Gruesome stood silently, eyes cast to the floor. Erliga bent down and kissed Blade gently on the forehead. "I would release you if I could, child." Blade closed his eye and held her hand close to his face. Tarac felt his stomach tighten, and he somehow knew that no person had ever seen this grizzled dwarf so vulnerable. The young kobold choked back tears of his own.

Finally, Erliga pulled her hand from the dwarf's grasp and rose to her feet. Almost instantly, Blade's eye clouded and his face became a mask of dispassion. Except for the drying tears on his cheek, there was no sign that the old man had ever been cognizant of their presence. The valkyrie shook her head, her beauty only enhanced by the sadness in her eyes.

"How could you have let this happen to him? Why would you bring him back so many times?"

Gruesome shrank within himself. Pellien merely shook his head.

"The king has given his orders. Any viking that can be Returned, must be." He met Erliga's eyes, almost defiantly. "And it's what Blade would have wanted. Can't you see his soul? Can't you see the man he is? The warrior he is?"

Erliga closed her eyes and seemed to concentrate. "He stretches so far between here and Valhalla. He is in so many places." She caught the shaman's gaze finally. "I do not envy my sister that must ferry his soul. It spreads out like a spiderweb. It may take him years to make the journey."

"Battle is all he knows, lady. All he's ever known. Perhaps that's why he still fights. It's all he can do. I tell him when to eat, when to drink, when to sleep. He would not do any of those on his own. He would stand in one place, waiting for a battle to come to him. He would waste away."

Erliga walked to Pellien and looked down at the little kobold. "Then it is your duty to see that he dies in battle, shaman. Do not let his many sacrifices be wasted!"

Pellien met her eyes with just as much authority as she. "Don't presume to tell me how to take care of my friend, girl. Odin's maiden or no, you can't begin to understand how much that man's sacrifices have meant to me! Ymir take my bones now, if you think I'd see him cast to Helheim!" He took a long breath and released it. "My care is for his soul, not just his body."

Tarac swallowed hard. The tension made him incredibly uncomfortable, and the past few moments made him realize why he did not keep much company. His others never argued, or showed their grief. For the first time, he wondered if joining the three warriors was a good idea.

After a small pause, Erliga bowed her head to Pellien. "My apologies again, shaman. I can see that you do not treat your friend lightly. I promise to never question your motives toward him again."

"Hmmph," Pellien nodded his acceptance. "Again, eh? Are you asking us to join you on your quest?"

"Well, it seems our quests are somewhat the same. Odin surely brought you here to save me, or perhaps me to guide you."

Pellien bowed slightly to the pretty valkyrie. "So it seems."

She fixed the older kobold with a stern smile. "Then let us see what answers we might find."

"Your answers do not interest me, my lady." Tarac turned toward the grim-faced Gruesome as the troll spoke. "Every minotaur I see, dies."

The berserker's words rang of promise, not threat.

**Chapter 11**

Gruesome's head felt heavy on his neck. Pellien and the valkyrie spoke to each other as they walked ahead of him, but he could not bring himself to focus on their words. In his mind, he saw the troll and dwarf charging him again and again, their mouths opening wider as they drew closer until they could swallow him whole. He kept his eyes focused ahead of the small group of vikings, muscles tensed for the enemies he knew lay ahead. They emhad /emto be coming for them, because his rage boiled in his blood and he needed to release it. He still felt the dwarf's pulse pushing against his arm before he had ended the man's enslavement with a twist of his neck, still heard the awful tearing of muscle and flesh from the troll's fangs sinking into his shoulder. His wounds were healed, his strength returned... but the despair still filled his heart. His own brothers-in-arms had tried to kill him. Had called upon his own god's reward to do so.

The minotaurs. The minotaurs did this, brought his kinsmen to this end. Gruesome wished to feel their horns in his hands. How easily he could end their lives like the dwarf berserker. His fingers brushed the head of his hammer. He almost felt it crushing one of the bull's skulls, smelled their blood pouring from their throats thanks to his axe. He wanted to kill them all.

Something moved in the shadows before them. Gruesome's weapons were in his hands in a flash of arcanium gold. He lept completely over Pellien and past Erliga. His hammer was met by two long blades of steel as a young elf came into full view from the stealth magic that cloaked him. But rage fueled the troll's strength, rage and the augmentations of Pellien's and Blade's magics. The elf was crushed to the floor, then Gruesome's axe split its face in a shower of pink blood. He felt an attack from his right and moved his body just enough to cause a large blade to graze his right arm. He spun to his left, bringing his axe in a sideways swing. A tall firbolg caught the blow with his massive sword, but the berserker was already bringing his hammer around to smash the Hibernian in the shoulder. He didn't even hear the creature's grunt, didn't stop to look at its eyes to see the fear that must have been there. His axe found the firbolg's spine, then Gruesome was moving past. More bodies approached him quickly from a doorway in the left wall of the tunnel, and he rushed forward to meet them.

The first was a tall woman, well-groomed like a briton. Her shield stopped his hammer from crushing her skull, but the force carried her back. The troll pushed on, axe and hammer twin whirls of death. More blades struck him and dark magic enveloped him, but the pain only fed his anger. The sound of his own blood rushing in his ears blocked all other sounds. He saw mouths open, but could not determine if they were screams of pain or rage. It did not matter to him. He would end all their misery.

_They were not themselves._

The valkyrie's words urged him on. Half-ogre, celt, kobold...none of these were themselves. They were mindless slaves that needed to die. They needed to die because Gruesome knew they stood between him and the minotaurs.

Familiar magic filled his body. Was he being healed? Or was Blade quickening his muscles? Probably both. Metal flurries came from both sides, and he knew some of them were his companions. He gutted a troll in ragged chain armor, then threw its body into a line of enemies. His arms and legs never stopped moving, and none of his foes defenses could hold him. He was so close. His rage was almost all-consuming. It would be so easy to give in and let Modi take him. With the shaman's and dwarf's spells enhancing him as well, he would tear through bones like a knife through bread.

But no. He wanted his senses. He wanted to know when the minotaurs would show themselves. He wanted to see their bovine heads with his own eyes. And these warriors were not worth Modi's gift. These must have been inexperienced fighters, because they fell all too quickly. Gruesome's hammer turned a celt's tattooed face into pulp. A tiny lurikeen drove tiny daggers at him and he slapped the little man or woman's body to the side with the broad side of his axe.

Another troll fell to his axe, and Gruesome wondered if he'd ever met him before. It looked young. Fire burned his face and he slashed his hammer down. Something to his right fell in a heap, then he was swinging both weapons at a firbolg with a large shield. It caught both blows, then blood spurted from its neck. Erliga's silvery sword darted backwards, and Gruesome turned to face more enemies on his left. Magic swirled all around him, bathing the dimly lit passage in changing colors. He tried to look past the mass of bodies, but saw no horned figures beyond. That meant he just had to keep killing.

He began to feel almost calm, his arms swinging easily. He parried a hammer from his left, and sidestepped a sword from his right. He heard the clang of his own hammer ringing off the shiny plate helm of an Albion highlander. He smiled to himself at the man's short skirt. They could be fierce warriors, but why would they adorn themselves in women's clothes? Blade's voice broke over the din of battle as the dwarf cast some spell behind him. Erliga shouted beside him and he felt a wound on his side instantly knit itself closed. Tarac's armored skeleton slashed wildly to his left. Suddenly, the tunnel was filled with the snarl of countless warriors, cries of pain and the voices of multiple conjurers.

Gruesome crossed hammer and axe and caught a dwarf's larger sword before it struck his face. With a roar, he kicked the stout man away and backhanded his hammer at a norseman that rushed up to take the dwarf's place.

The troll looked at the line of attackers before him, seeing their faces clearly. Ugly boils covered their skin, and he recognized Pellien's handiwork. A wave of energy poured from Erliga's entire body and they all screamed in pain. One of Tarac's dark spells washed over an elf, and the thin figure crumpled to the ground. Everyone that faced them was young, some not even wearing armor. Gruesome knew this tactic. These were a first line, expendable soldiers sent to die to tire the enemy. He took a defensive stance and tried to count their numbers.

Maybe ten or fifteen enslaved warriors stood between them and a larger door. He and his four companions could easily defeat them all, but what waited for them beyond?

"Would you wait one Hel-damned moment?" Pellien's voice brought Gruesome completely to his senses. The shaman chanted and dark roots broke through the floor and tangled the feet of all their young enemies. Most struggled to break the holds, causing the vines to cling tighter. "Back, you stupid brute. Back up!"

Gruesome back-stepped towards the old kobold, Erliga and the bonedancer's minions moved with him. Pellien led them out of the smaller passage and into the larger one where the troll had first noticed the poorly-stealthed elf. The shaman looked impatiently around the larger tunnel.

"Damn these miserable beasts! Don't they believe in doors?" His grey eyes bored into Gruesome. "You big fool, what in Hel's heart got into you?"

The berserker merely stared back at the little kobold. Pellien shook his head.

"Blade! We move!" At the shaman's behest the dwarf chanted the spell that would quicken their feet with magical earnest. Gruesome ran with the group, now with the valkyrie between himself and Pellien. She seemed to take a protective posture close behind the small kobold, her shield held at the ready. Gruesome felt the weight of his hammer and axe in his hands. He was reluctant to give up their solid comfort. Twice, Pellien stopped at larger intersecting tunnels and took brief stock of each with whatever senses he used to navigate this dank pit. The first he quickly passed by, but at the second one he took the left turn. After a few moments, he stopped at a small doorway cut neatly into the right wall and sniffed the air.

"This way, quickly!" The little shaman darted into the darkened hall that emptied into a small room. Two torches to the left and right of the entrance burned with dull, red fire. A stone table large enough for a family of trolls dominated the center of the room, the top scratched and nicked to various depths all over. Part of the wall in the back was cut away waist-high, and a bowl was carved into the lower jut. Clear water filled the bowl from a small spring beneath. The overflow dripped from a small cleft in one side into a hole in the floor directly beneath it. Pellien removed the chain glove from his right hand and sipped tentatively from it. "It's bitter, but it's clean."

Tarac and Erliga moved quickly to the bowl and began refilling water-skins while Pellien turned his sharp eyes on Gruesome once again. He sighed heavily, and the troll felt his stomach tighten at his old friend's disappointment. Pellien spoke slowly, as if choosing his words.

"I think we all knew before we entered here that we would see things that would disturb us. Tarac even mentioned such." The kobold stopped Gruesome's words with a raised hand. "But if you're going to lose your wits every time one of our enslaved countrymen tries to kill us, boy..."

"Well, I just don't think we can do this without you."

Gruesome's head dropped in shame. "I needed to, Pell. I needed it. I am berserker, and that is what I do."

"Aye, boy, and you do it well. But those were the chaff. Perhaps they thought the numbers were enough to kill us few. Perhaps they were using them to draw us toward them, but none of the ones you killed there were of any skill. Not like the ones we first met, not like ones we're likely to meet sooner than I'd hoped, either!" Pellien stepped in front of Gruesome and looked up at the towering warrior with stern eyes. "Boy, you don't go charging into enemies you don't know like that! I expected that from Zalathorn, but not you!"

Gruesome was taken aback by the shaman's words. He had never heard the old kobold speak an ill word about their dead friend. Zalathorn and Pellien had been like brothers before the dwarf berserker died in a large battle while trying to defend Thor's hammer from an Albion horde at Mjollner Faste. Thoughts of the day still brought pain to the big troll's heart. He met Pellien's eyes and felt his chest rise with the anger he felt at the little shaman. The kobold's grey eyes held his coolly.

"Umm, good troll?" Tarac interrupted them. "Would you like me to stitch up your armor a bit there?"

"We've no time for that now." Pellien's eyes never wavered. "Who knows how close they might be?" He stepped past Gruesome into the small hall leading to the larger tunnel.

"Where are we going?" The troll felt his anger subside somewhat with his words.

"If I'm right, and mind you it will only be by Gefion's grace that I am." One sharp eye twinkled with mischief over the old kobold's shoulder. "We just might come up behind them."

Gruesome gripped his weapons tightly and grinned at his friend. "It's hard to stay mad at you, you old fiend."

"Someone has to keep you fools alive. Tarac, stay with Blade at our backs. I still think those young ones might be heading our way. Erliga, stay by Gruesome with that shield like you were earlier. The only way we're going to find ourselves some rest is to take care of the minotaurs driving these, I think." Pellien slapped Blade on the shoulder. "Let's move, old goat!"

Blade's spell once again filled their legs with vigor and they were off. Pellien led them through another couple of left turns, then right into a narrow, dark passage with a bright red light at the end. He slowed their pace as they approached the opening and held his hand up to halt the rest. He moved quietly to the door, and Gruesome thought for not the first time in all the years that the shaman might have made an excellent shadowblade as well. After peering into the brighter room, Pellien waved them forward. The four vikings stopped behind the little kobold, and took in the bizarre scene before them.

The room sloped slightly up from their vantage point, and was as large as two drinking halls. Three large forges were arranged in a triangle pattern, with heavily-muscled minotaurs working each. A tall one in black armor stood in the middle, braying orders in a deep voice. At the forge nearest the viking's spypost, a firbolg and half-ogre in fine armor stood. A troll and highlander stood statue-still at the forge to the left, and the last forge was guarded by another troll and another firbolg. Beyond them all, three minotaurs in long robes faced the opposite wall.

"The chanters," Tarac whispered as he pointed to the robed ones. "They sing the songs behind the odd ones. I've seen them!"

Around the minotaur conjurers, seven of the warrior beasts milled. Gruesome recognized three of them definitely. One was reddish-brown and carried a large staff, the same creature he'd killed after fighting the Albion assassins. Another was brown, wearing shiny clawed gloves and with a large scar running the width of its nose. The troll could still remember the taste of the beast's blood. The third minotaur was black except for a wide stripe of white fur across its face. Gruesome was sure these were the same minotaurs from the day before, plus the ones Pellien and Tarac had fought. Beyond the bulls, a handful of Hibernians, Albions and Midgardians stood still as stone.

"The big one," Pellien pointed a small finger to the minotaur in black armor. "He's the leader. He was with the two retrieving the weapons from before." He paused and rubbed his chin absently. "Now what did they want with those? And what in Hel's arse are they doing here?"

"Well, they aren't supplying an army." Gruesome looked to the bonedancer at his words, the young kobold caught his eye and blushed. "Well, what i mean is that they have three forges. Three forges, but only one smith at each. That means they are making single items that require great skill. And, if they were only using them to forge armor and weapons, they could have armed every odd one we've seen ten times over in just a few days."

Erliga nodded. "But some of the ones earlier didn't even have armor, and their weapons were all of poor quality. So what are they forging here, bonedancer?"

Tarac smiled and shrugged. "I'm sorry, good lady. I have no idea."

"I killed some of those earlier." Gruesome stared at the minotaurs beyond the forge. "They have bindstones somewhere close then."

"That's a lot of them," Pellien mused. "And they must have healers somewhere to have bindstones. And those odd ones by the forges don't look so weak as the others. And I want to see those weapons up close."

"There's something else." Erliga drew all their attention with her clear voice. "I know this much, my dreams drew me deeper than this. We are not at the source of what is taking your norsemen brothers from their rightful end. Whatever this is here, it is only a small part. A dark, cold power lies somewhere lower."

"Hmm," Pellien's eyes narrowed in concentration.

"What are you thinking, Pell?"

The shaman shifted his eyes to meet Gruesome's. "We do what we do best, boy. Hit 'em hard, hit 'em quick." His wrinkled, blue face widened in a big smile.

"Then we run like the wind."

**Chapter 12**

Gruesome gripped his hammer and axe tightly. He was not used to following others into a fight, it was always his place to lead a charge. He was a big target to distract their enemies from Blade and Pellien. And he could usually fell a mage or two before they knew what hit them. Hibernia and Albion had mages like Uppland had snow. However, the shaman's plan called for a more indirect approach, and experience told the troll that Pellien knew best. If the six odd ones near the forges were anything like the others, they wouldn't be very observant. Gruesome hoped the minotaurs at the forges would be too busy to notice Tarac and the older kobold sneaking around piles of coal and iron weapons along both walls. Gruesome looked to his right, where the bonedancer's "others" stirred impatiently. It seemed they didn't like being even this far from their master. The younger kobold had assured Pellien that he could control them.

Erliga shivered beside Gruesome, as if a chill wind touched only her in the mystical warmth of the labyrinth. The berserker wondered if her appearance of strength was a facade. Who knew what horrors she had endured before the vikings found her? He nudged her gently with his elbow and whispered as low as he could, despite the loud roars and clangs of the forges.

"Are you alright, my lady?"

"I am fine for the battle, troll, but there is a coldness in this place." She nodded tersely in the direction of the group of odd ones beyond the trio of forges. "It drifts to me from those lost souls, and from those forges. And from beneath us."

Gruesome stared at the young norsewoman for a moment. Her natural beauty enhanced the quality of her character, from her unblemished alabaster skin to her blue eyes that churned like the sea. They brought to the surface a strength that far surpassed her youth, a strength that could only have been born of the gods. Even the beads of sweat that trailed her cheek from under her winged helm shimmered with otherworldly presence. The mighty troll found himself in awe of the battlemaiden, and wondered how he ever doubted her fortitude.

"Am I the first valkyrie you have met, warrior?" Her voice was as hushed as his.

Gruesome nodded soberly. "Forgive me, lady. I do not mean to stare."

"No offense taken, troll. Your people are noble, and I know you mean no disrespect." Erliga smiled softly, and her beauty enhanced tenfold with the small expression. "Sometimes I find it hard to believe the same gods made your kind as made man."

Despite their circumstance, Gruesome found himself grinning. He enjoyed the thought of fighting alongside this valkyrie. The big troll turned his attention to Pellien, as the little shaman crept in the dark shadows of the left wall of the large room. "I think our friends are almost ready."

The old kobold knelt behind a stack of coal a few yards from the leftmost forge. He peered around it at the big minotaur in black armor, then looked across the room to where Tarac hid in a similar spot. Gruesome doubted the two kobolds could see each other past the bright fires of the forges, and he hoped the bonedancer was timely with his spells for Pellien's sake. The berserker hated being farther from his little friend than their enemies were. But surprise and speed were the keys to the shaman's plan.

Of course, success here did not mean they would all survive the day. For all Gruesome knew, the vikings had no real idea just what they were doing here, or where they would go from these forges. The troll's stomach tightened with uncertainty. He had no fear of caves, no fear of fighting...but not knowing what the near future held troubled him greatly. He hoped Pellien knew what he was doing, and whispered a low prayer to Modi for all the strength he could give. He prepared himself to rush forward as fast as Blade's magic would carry him at the shaman's attack.

Pellien pulled himself atop the pile of coal and gestured toward the minotaurs and odd ones around the forges, his words lost in sounds of the bull smiths' work. Gruesome threw himself forward, followed by Erliga, Blade and Tarac's others. Smooth, green vegetation ripped through the stone floor and entangled all in the area near the forges. The swift shaman immediately turned his attention to the minotaurs up the cave's slope and cast the same spell. The large minotaur bellowed an order that turned into a cry of pain as Tarac unleashed a barrage of dark energy upon him. Gruesome and the rest were still thirty paces away, but closing fast.

Erliga shouted and white light surrounded the minotaur leader's head. His brown fur erupted in red sores from another spell by the shaman.

"Now, Blade! Cast them into dreams!" Somehow, Pellien's voice broke over the screams of animal rage. Like a true warrior, the dwarf wasted no time in casting his mesmerizing spell over each large form closest to them.

Gruesome bounded between the three forges like a rampaging beast, slapping a wild swing by one of the firbolgs aside with ease. The odd ones tangled in the shaman's spell swung their weapons in frenzy at Erliga and the skeletons with no success. The berserker rushed to one of the smiths and smashed both weapons down upon it. Axe cut deep in the creature's shoulder, and hammer smashed its skull. Gruesome kicked the fatally wounded bull into its fiery forge and spun toward the minotaur's commander, who was on his knees in ultimate agony from Tarac's continued assault.

Erliga slammed her shield into another smith before pushing the big beast into its own forge with a mighty heave. Two of Tarac's skeletons battered at the third smith while the armored minion shoved it toward the white hot fire. The valkyrie shouted above the din and pointed at a sword that lay on the floor near one of the forges, "There!"

Tarac's smallest other rushed and grabbed the blade, then turned to run to its master's side. A troll between it and Tarac swiped a large axe at the skeleton's leg, cutting it cleanly off. The bony little figure crashed to the floor and slid to a rattling stop, but never let go of the sword. Gruesome lunged at the troll and his axe cut deeply into its armored side. He brought his hammer down on the back of the odd troll's head, then deftly stepped to his left to avoid the wide blade of a firbolg's sword. The large-headed Hibernian roared in pain as Tarac's largest other drove its sword into the lanky other's side. Another skeleton grabbed the little one's leg while the last scooped up the little healer like a mother carrying a child.

"Ha-hah!" Pellien laughed behind them. "Off we go!"

Gruesome threw his shoulder into the firbolg and headed toward the small door they'd entered. Blade still cast his spell upon their enemies beyond, his teeth bared in concentration. Pellien grabbed the old dwarf by the shoulder and pulled him back as he went. A few paces from the small door, the big troll stopped and waited for all of his companions to pass. Erliga stood by his side, sword and shield held high. Tarac was the last to reach them.

"Give me but a moment to fix her, and we can go!" The bonedancer's eyes were wide with excitement. He snatched the leg from his other and aligned the bone on the little healer. His hands were a blur as he cast a spell that knitted the bone together.

Minotaurs and odd ones began to rush toward the vikings, passing the forges where two large bodies still thrashed in the flames. Gruesome's eyes met those of the white-faced bull. It shook its horned head and brayed a challenge to him. The troll clashed hammer and axe together in answer.

"It's done!" Tarac shouted wildly.

Gruesome roared defiantly, but turned to run with his comrades. He knew that he was not backing down from a fight. He knew that he would face these foes again. But his friends needed him more than he needed to kill one minotaur. The berserker followed close behind Erliga, while the dwarf's magic propelled them faster than the minotaurs and odd ones could follow and Pellien's spell of everlasting endurance kept them running. The little shaman led them out of the small hallway and turned left in the larger tunnel, which constantly curved right. He kept their pace a steady rush past four openings, three to the right and one to the left. Gruesome trusted the kobold's instincts in caverns such as these; he reasoned anyone raised in the Kobold Undercity, then trained in the subterranean arts of the shaman knew his way around a tunnel. Pellien brought them to an abrupt stop and lifted his face toward the smooth stone of the ceiling.

"Down you say, lady?"

Erliga stepped to the older kobold's side. "Aye, shaman. There is a great darkness below. Much greater than at the forges."

"Well," Pellien wrinkled his blue nose. "The air is getting thicker, cooler. We must be close to a way down, be prepared for anything. Blade!" He turned and faced the old dwarf. "Let's not have anyone raising an alarm, eh?"

The son of Eir stared vacantly, and Gruesome wondered if his old friend even heard the shaman; but Pellien seemed satisfied. The troll felt excitement welling from the bonedancer and valkyrie, and himself...only the dwarf and Pellien seemed undaunted by the group's mad rush. He knew the little kobold's calm came from decades of experience, but Blade's was a different sort.

The shaman nodded at the four vikings, then sped off again down the large tunnel. The curve sharpened until they could only see a few yards ahead, then straightened toward a large doorway. Two large minotaurs in chain armor, both holding tall pikes, stood on either side of the opening. The bulls looked at the oncoming warriors and brayed in surprise. The one on the right rushed into the doorway, but Blade was already chanting before his stubby dwarf feet had stopped. The retreating minotaur stood still while the other ran to meet the intruders.

Gruesome charged ahead of Pellien, pulling hammer and axe from his hips. He prepared himself to dodge the pike's deadly tip, then saw red swirls fill the bull's eyes as Blade worked his magic. The troll swung his weapons in deadly arcs at the beast's head and was rewarded with the crunch of bone and gush of blood. He yanked his axe from under its jaw and let the body fall to the floor. Magic coursed over the second minotaur as Erliga, Tarac and Pellien unleashed malevolent forces upon it. The bonedancer's others slashed and wailed at the helpless creature with reckless abandon. Gruesome rushed past the dying bull in search of more foes.

A short landing past the doorway led to a wide, spiraling set of stone steps, much like the ones they first encountered after they all dropped down the well. The only sounds were the thumps of armored viking feet, the clacking of skeletons and the gurgle of dying minotaurs. Pellien stopped beside the waiting berserker.

"After you, boy. You make a better first impression."

Gruesome flexed his broad shoulders and gritted his teeth. Behind them, a small army of minotaurs and enslaved topsiders. Before them, the unknown. He took his first step into their destiny.

To Be Continued


End file.
